


The Great Escape

by spinyfruit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - World War II, Claustrophobia, Friendship, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, and alfred as the cooler king, completely self-indulgent fanfic, eventual btt friendship praise the lord, had to write sufin as the tunnel kings, what the hell am i doing to francis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinyfruit/pseuds/spinyfruit
Summary: In 1943, during the height of World War II, the Germans decided to put all of their bad eggs in one basket. Meaning, all of the best escape artists from every prisoner of war camp in a new, state-of-the-art facility. Wait—maybe that's not such a good idea...WWII au based off of the 1963 film, The Great Escape.US/UK and FrUK love triangle, established SuFin, Pol/Liet, eventual BTT friendship, and some Spamano.





	1. The first day

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I started years ago, and remained a project I wanted to write even after I fell out of the Hetalia fandom. But since I'm back for a hot minute, I went ahead and wrote it. Because dang it The Great Escape is one of my favorite movies and the perfect setting to write so many of the characters. This fic is pretty England and America centric, with multiple pairings, but the focus is definitely action/adventure and friendship.
> 
> The movie was based off a true story from WWII, and they took some creative liberties with the characters, so I'm going to take creative liberties with the movie to fit the Hetalia cast. You don't have to watch the movie to read the fic, but I do recommend it since it is AWESOME.
> 
> I try to explain everything clearly, but in case it helps, here is a list of the characters, their "roles", and who they're fighting for:
> 
> "Big X" – Arthur Kirkland (Britain)
> 
> "Cooler King"– Alfred F. Jones (U.S.A.)
> 
> "Intelligence"– Matthew Williams (Canadian for Britain)
> 
> "Scrounger"– Antonio Carriedo (Spanish fighting for Britain)
> 
> "Forger"– Francis Bonnefoy (French-Canadian fighting for Britain)
> 
> "Commandant"– Colonel Ludwig Bielschmidt (German Luftwaffe)
> 
> "Tunnel Kings"– Berwald Oxenstierna (Swedish fighting for Britain) and Tino Valnamoinen (Finnish fighting for Britain)
> 
> "Manufacturers"– Toris and Eduard and Raivis (Resistance)
> 
> "Mole"– Peter Kirkland/Sealand (Britain)
> 
> "Ferret"– Gilbert Bielschmidt (German officer)
> 
> "Dispersal" – Raivis (Resistance)
> 
> "Surveyor"– Lovino Vargas (Italian-American U.S.A.)
> 
> "Tailor" – Feliciano Vargas (Italian-American U.S.A.) and Feliks Lukasiewics, (Resistance)
> 
> —Raivis is Latvia, Eduard is Estonia, Toris is Lithuania, and Feliks is Poland—
> 
> I don't typically write in third person omniscient, but since there are so many moving parts, I thought it might be for the best. Hope you enjoy it!

1943

Sagan, Nazi Germany

It was morning when a dozen trucks pulled onto the long driveway of the new prisoner of war camp. All of them were dark green with cloth tops, and inside each were dozens of foreign soldiers watched by armed German guards. Some of them knew each other, and some of them didn’t. English, American, Australian, Canadian, and other nationalities were crouched on the metal bed of the trucks. Alfred had his baseball glove on his left hand, and habitually tossed his baseball in the leather pocket over and over again. He didn’t talk to anyone. Seemed like there were no Americans on this truck. But it was full of characters, which he found entertaining.

A French-Canadian or Frenchman – judging by the accent – was conversing animatedly with some British officers. He seemed so sophisticated and genteel in his indigo clothes and long blond hair, if also a bit annoying. Alfred couldn’t figure out how he fit in with the rest of them.

There were two stoic blonds at the other end. Well, one of them _very_ stoic and _very_ serious, who kept his gaze firm on the wall across from him. The other a little smaller and a little kinder-looking. He was patting the stoic one on the back and saying something to him. Probably words of comfort.

Alfred tried to stay optimistic. But secretly he did wonder if maybe they weren’t going to another camp. Maybe they were going to be taken to the Gestapo and shot. That was always a possibility, and he knew it.

So when the truck finally parked, sending everyone but the armed Germans tumbling to their side, Alfred tucked the ball back in his glove and took it off. He stared at the back of the truck with hard eyes.

Commotion began to trickle outside, and he heard other trucks parking and some Germans talking. Then at once the back of the truck was yanked open and someone shouted:

“All right. Everybody out.”

No one had to be told twice. Two at a time they hopped out of the truck, and Alfred found himself close to last. He actually laughed when he saw that they were indeed at another camp. Some people gave him odd looks, including the two tall blonds, but he carried on and joined the crowd of other men. He was the only one not in uniform, so he hoped that he would be easy to spot if anyone he knew was here too—Alfred was still wearing his grey jumper, leather jacket, and beige pants. But when he glanced around him, it was a sea of blue and grey uniforms: all of them tattered, dirty, and worn.

They were led through the gates and an important looking German flanked by armed guards was watching them. He was Luftwaffe. Colonel Ludwig Bielschmidt, the commandant of the camp. He looked at the prisoners milling about with sharp blue eyes, and kept his hands folded behind his back as he observed them. These were the greatest escape artists of all the prisoner of war camps, and watching them now it was very clear—because absolutely no one was standing still.

One of the prisoners dressed in blue and carrying a brown sheepskin-lined jacket over his shoulder paused at the wire blocking off the few feet before the tall fence. He was the only Spaniard in the camp: named Antonio Carriedo. He glanced from guard tower to guard tower. This was unlike any of the camps he’d been in previously. It was obvious the Germans had poured incredible effort and money into this place. The fence around the perimeter was tall, and the number of guards was almost obscene. He spotted large lights attached to the tops of the towers to search the compound at night.

Antonio scratched his head and smiled. If the Germans put in this much effort, it seemed like he was doing his job right after all. They all were.

 

* * *

 

 

The wooden houses, or huts as they called them, were hoisted off the ground by about a foot, and organized in neat, calculated German rows. Two young men were walking fast by them, and one of them named Lovino, crouched down and peered underneath. His jacket puckered as he knelt.

“Lovi,” Feliciano, his brother, whispered. He followed suit and deftly looked underneath. His blue uniform had been stripped of its buttons, so it flapped to his sides whenever he moved. “What do you think?”

Lovino grumbled something indiscernible and resumed walking. Feliciano was fast to return to his heels.

“What was that?” Feliciano asked again.

“They’re not making this easy,” Lovino muttered, and his eyes stayed on the rows of huts. All of them wooden and the same. He wondered which would be theirs.

As the Vargas brothers were leaving, the two tall blonds stopped at a hut and watched the German guards. The taller one wearing glasses crossed his arms.

“Berwald, how far do you think the trees are?” the softer one asked, peering past the fence to the forest. His name was Tino Vainamoinen—he was Finnish but was fighting for England. His friend was Berwald Oxenstierna, and was Swedish and fighting for England. They were known as the “tunnel kings”. And right now that’s all they could think about. The next tunnel. Getting out.

“Two hundred feet,” Berwald muttered shortly. Without any change in expression, he corrected, “Almost three hundred feet.”

Tino whistled and rolled his eyes to the guard towers again. “We’ll get Eduard to make a survey.”

“Long ways to dig,” Berwald said.

Tino glanced at him. Berwald’s face always stayed icy and firm, but Tino could tell from the grip of his hands on his sleeves that he was dreading the next tunnel.

“I wish ‘Big X’ were here,” Tino sighed. “I wonder where he is?”

“Maybe he’s dead,” Berwald replied shortly. “Taken by Gestapo.”

“I hope not. I hope he makes it here. We sure could use his help.” Tino paused and looked at Berwald again. Tino tentatively rubbed Berwald’s back, trying to calm Berwald’s nerves. Slowly, Berwald’s shoulders relaxed and the gleam in his eyes faded. Tino tugged at his arm, and together they walked somewhere else.

All of the prisoners continued milling about. But they stopped in their tracks once they heard the large, imposing gates shut with an echo. They were trapped again. Another prison, for who knows how long. While the rest of the world keeps fighting, they are trapped here. And it was made very clear to them that this time the Germans were not going to be as easy to slip past.

Colonel Ludwig Bielschmidt was put in charge of the camp once the power was given to the Luftwaffe. And he was almost thankful. He may be German and he always wanted to obey and help his country, but he knew that if it wasn’t him in charge it could have been the Gestapo. And the Gestapo were in no way German to him. They were _scum of the earth_. They had no respect for prisoners of war, and everyone standing in this camp now would be shot on the side of the road if they got their way.

That was not the way Germans should handle things. And it was certainly not the way the Luftwaffe do.

He stepped off of the compound to his office for a moment, and ordered that the senior British officer, Group Captain Matthew Williams, be brought to him. Ludwig was rigid against his desk and shining in his perfect navy uniform from head to toe, emblems and pins gleaming from the sunshine of the window. But the Group Captain brought inside was the opposite.

It almost pained Ludwig to see Matthew. He was tall and blond, hair a little unkept, and his uniform intact but badly worn. There was something soft in his face that made Ludwig sad, because perhaps they could have been friends in another life. But his blue eyes were guarded and they looked at Ludwig with no openness or vulnerability. Obviously in this life, the two of them could never be friends.

Once the door was shut, Ludwig paced around the side of his desk.

“Group Captain Williams, I hope you can act as the liaison between the prisoners and I,” he said. Matthew stood still on the other side of the room. “Over the past four years, the Reich has been forced to utilize a considerable amount of manpower, money, and resources hunting down escaped prisoners of war, and that is the exact reason this new facility has been built.”

“Nice to know we’re wanted,” Matthew smiled shortly. Even his voice was soft. But war has obviously sharpened it with laden anger. Ludwig turned to his desk.

“There will be no escapes from this camp. None.”

“Commandant,” Matthew piped up, voice gaining more strength and less fear. “It is the sworn duty of every officer to try to escape. And if they can’t, it is their sworn duty to harass the enemy to the best of their ability.”

“Yes, I know,” Ludwig replied dryly, offering Matthew a wry smile. “The men under your authority have been most successful.” He picked up a folder from his desk and breezily opened it. This man…Feliks. Escape, recaptured, escape, recaptured, escape recaptured.” He dropped it on the table. Matthew gave nothing away in his stare. Ludwig picked up another file and read. “Peter Kirkland—eleven escape attempts. Even tried to jump out of the truck on the way here.” Matthew shrugged his shoulders, so Ludwig continued. “Oxenstierna—known to have participated in the digging of eleven escaped tunnels. Bonnefoy—four. Carriedo—five. Valnamoinen—four. Yourself—nine. Vargas—seven. The list is almost endless.” He slammed the folder onto the table, and picked up one other folder, far thicker than the rest. He glared at Williams. “This man – Jones – _seventeen_ escape attempts. Group Captain, this is close to insanity. And it must stop.”

“Do you expect officers to forget their duty?” Matthew asked smoothly.

Ludwig pressed his lips together and straightened. “No,” he admitted. “It is because we expect the opposite that we have brought you here.” He waved to the window. “This is a new camp. It has been built to hold you and your men. It has state-of-the-art facilities and security measures. And with me you will not be dealing with the common jailor, I have been personally selected by the Luftwaffe high command. We are essentially putting all of our bad eggs in one basket. And we intend to watch this basket very carefully.”

“My,” Matthew said softly, a small smile on his lips.

Ludwig pressed on, “You will not be denied the usual facilities. You will have sports, a library, a recreation hall, and for gardening we will even give you tools. We trust that you will use some of these tools for that purpose. Expend your energy on these activities and give up on escaping. This way can all sit out the war as comfortably as possible.”

Ludwig walked to Matthew, who had fallen silent and observant, and offered him a cigarette as a peace offering. Matthew’s eyes were still hard, but in a slow, careful movement, he took the cigarette delicately in his fingers and did not refute Ludwig’s statement.

Ludwig hoped that was a good omen for this new camp.

 

* * *

 

Outside, Antonio was still taking a lax tour of the compound. He spotted some open green trucks carrying cargo parked near a few of the huts. There weren’t any Germans there, and they left the windows down, so with a cursory glance over his shoulder, he approached the truck and peered inside. Maybe he would find something interesting. Antonio was always looking for something useful. He only managed to get his head halfway inside when he heard a German yell at him in accented English.

“What are you doing by the truck?” he said, and swiftly marched to Antonio’s side. He was in all black, even his hat, and neat silver hair shined underneath it. His gaze was powerful and red, but not necessarily violent. Just _intense._

Antonio leaned against the truck, his arm resting on the open window. “I’m stealing tools,” he said with a smile. It was amusing how shocked the German was at his reply. It almost looked like the German wanted to laugh.

Instead, the German coughed and gave Antonio a firm point. “For stealing tools you will be sent to the cooler,” he warned, and with a slight pause, he reached for Antonio’s arm to pull him away.

Antonio chuckled and backed away. “No, no! I was only kidding!” he promised. “I’m just looking around. Not stealing anything.”

The German narrowed his eyes, then stood straight and crossed his arms. A smile was definitely tugging hard at the corners of his lips. “Oh, you’re the Spaniard. The only one we have. Antonio Carriedo, right?”

Antonio flashed him a smile, and his eyes danced. “Didn’t know I was that famous.” He pulled the jacket from his shoulder and held it in his arms. “And you’re a German.”

The German raised his chin and now he _was_ smiling. “Well, actually I’m—” He stopped mid-sentence and looked around fast. Satisfied, he leaned close to Antonio and whispered very seriously. “I’m Prussian.”

Another laugh escaped Antonio’s lips and he looked up. “Is that a secret?”

“A awesome secret,” the Germa—Prussian proclaimed confidently. His smile vanished and he regarded Antonio more curiously now. “Why do you fight for England? You’re Spanish after all. Aren’t there better things to do over there, like fight bulls?”

Antonio wanted to see how far he could push this one. The Luftwaffe in general weren’t as violent as the other Germans – they were of a higher class – and this guy in particular seemed to be a little more open. Might as well give it a shot.

“Why would I fight bulls when they never did anything wrong?” he teased.

Ah, but maybe that was a tad too far. The Prussian iced up in a second and those strange red eyes flashed dangerously.

“Go away from here,” he ordered Antonio with a hard push. “And if I find you stealing tools it’ll be the cooler. Remember.” He poked his head in the truck as if to check whether Antonio managed to take something.

Antonio chuckled and tossed his jacket over his shoulder again. “All right. All right. See you around, Prussian.”

Antonio made a mental note of this character. He’d keep the Prussian in mind if he needed to steal something. Even if he didn’t appreciate Antonio’s joke, it was obvious he liked to talk. And Antonio could be a smooth talker when he wanted to be. Happy with his plan, Antonio began whistling a vague Spanish tune and strolled down the line of huts.

Meanwhile, Berwald and Tino lingered near the front gate watching a large group of men dressed in heavy coats line up.

“Berwald, who are they?”

Berwald squinted behind his glasses. “Russian prisoners. They cut down trees.”

“Oh, I see,” Tino said and looked at their picks and axes. “Do they keep them here in the camp too?”

“No, they take them out,” Berwald replied shortly. Then he stiffened, and without looking away from the Russians, he slowly dropped his bag to the floor and removed his jacket. “Tino,” he called. “Cigarettes.”

Tino blinked once before he realized Berwald was already working on a plan. They’ve been with each other through enough escapes to know each other’s cues. Berwald’s were always short and cryptic. But Tino has known him for years now. He knew when Berwald was cooking something up.

Without a word, Tino retrieved cigarettes from his breast pocket and passed them to Berwald. Berwald took them delicately and held them by his side. He gave Tino _the look_ —the look was a hard, intimidating glare to anyone else. But Tino was used to it.

“Got it,” he smiled. “I’ll talk to Feliks.” And in fast strides, Tino left Berwald’s side and bee-lined for the group of loud men lingering by the outdoor sinks.

They were the group of Eastern Europeans. Tino and Berwald had seen them in plenty of camps before.

Feliks Lukasiewicz was the loudest of the group, and the only one not in uniform. He was Polish, blond-haired, green eyed and wore peculiar civilian clothes. His odd manners and style of dress caught attention wherever he went. Typically he was seen babbling in a one-sided conversation with his close friend Toris. Just like this moment.

While Feliks was perched atop of his suitcase, waving his hands around, Toris was standing about a foot away, tiredly rubbing his temple.

Tino marched up to them and didn’t bother with introductions. “Berwald and I have a blitz in mind. Do you think you guys can put on a little show?”

“Oh, wow,” Feliks grinned and picked himself up. He pushed his pink scarf over his shoulder. “That was like, totally fast. Even for you guys.”

“Some people don’t waste time talking,” Toris commented dryly.

The other Eastern Europeans neared. The smaller one was Raivis, and the taller one in glasses was Eduard.

Eduard put a finger to his chin. “What did you have in mind? An all-out go?”

“Choir practice?” Raivis prompted.

“How about like, knuckles?” Feliks said happily.

Toris glared at him. “It better not go like last time.”

“Knuckles will be fine,” Tino said, not giving attention to their spat (they were always arguing after all). He looked at Berwald standing near the hut. “I’ll leave it up to you guys, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Feliks shrugged his shoulders and tossed his scarf into Toris’s hands. “No problem at all.” Toris frowned as he held the pink fabric.

Tino nodded and swiftly scampered away. Feliks was ready to start the show.

Feliks didn’t enjoy actual fighting – he was a bit of a scaredy-cat after all – but he _loved_ play fighting. And even more so when it was with Toris.

Even when he yelled, he grinned. “You damn Liet! You totally took my scarf, didn’t you!” He rushed up to Toris and grabbed the scarf from his hands.

Toris _hated_ play fighting— _especially_ with Feliks. But he grit his teeth and followed Feliks’s lead. (Why did it always have to be his lead?)

“You dirty Pol! Get your hands off my scarf!” he shouted. Some German officers were turning their heads now. Toris shoved Feliks’s shoulder, and as usual Feliks looked equal parts scared and sad that Toris was fighting back.

But Feliks was quick to raise the façade again, and he laughed maniacally. “You know what, Liet? I have something else for you.” Feliks pulled back his arm and swung his fist across Toris’s left cheek. “How do you like that?” He kept laughing.

“For god’s sake, Feliks,” Toris grumbled as he held his cheek. “You asked for it!” And he charged Feliks to the ground. They rolled in the dirt and Feliks gave random shouts like “what the hell! Why are you attacking me?” and “my scarf is going to be totally ruined you know”. Toris wasn’t actually hurting him, but they kept rolling on the ground, both of them shouting, until there were whistles, German yelling, and soldiers pried them away from each other.

“Hey, hey! Easy!” Feliks whined, as a German pulled him to his feet. He patted some dirt from his hair. “We were just like, having an argument. What’s the big—” Feliks’s voice closed when he made eye contact with the German officer standing between them. Well, not German, it was the Prussian. He wasn’t the one who had pulled Feliks and Toris apart, but he seemed to be commanding the operation. Any remaining part of Feliks façade faded and he felt himself shrink in his clothes. Those red eyes were scary.

The Prussian regarded Feliks and Toris with a fiery discipline. “What the hell is going on here?” It wasn’t a yell, but his voice was loud and strong anyway.

“I, um, I…” Feliks’s voice trailed off. He wanted to hide behind Toris, but was forced to stand alone in his place.

Toris noticed Feliks discomfort with some concerned empathy, maybe also frustration. It was always like this. So Toris smiled and tried to play it off. “We were just having a friendly little argument. Isn’t that right, Pol?”

Feliks’s green eyes were wide and they shot between Toris and the Prussian.

He didn’t have a chance to reply before the Prussian was staring him down. “No more fighting, got that?” He looked to Toris. “No more.” Then he nodded to the other German officers and walked away. “Now everyone get back to your huts! At once. You hear me? Get back!” A large crowd had gathered to watch Feliks and Toris’s little scramble, and several German officers were keeping them at bay with heavy guns.

Feliks’s hands were trembling, and he shoved them in his pockets so no one could see. He was staring at the floor and saw Toris’s boots appear in front of him.

“Come on, Feliks. It’s okay. He wasn’t actually going to hurt you,” Toris said gently and he held Feliks’s shoulder.

Feliks sniffed. “What the hell was with those like, red eyes then? What is he? A dragon?”

Toris sighed and tried to be diplomatic. “He’s just doing his job. He’s German—what do you expect? Now, come on. Let’s go join Raivis and Eduard.”

Feliks nodded and began walking with him. He found a little spark and was able to give a last quip to Toris. “You did totally ruin my scarf, you know. You better do something to make it up to me. Like something good.”

Toris rolled his eyes.

Feliks was troublesome in a good or bad mood. If it was good he liked to boss Toris around and act obnoxious and selfish. If it was bad he turned into a little kid that needed to be protected. Toris had too many experiences with both sides, and although he loathed them both, he did prefer Feliks happy. At least he would smile then.

And as they rejoined the crowd of other prisoners, Toris was relieved to see that their spat hadn’t been a waste. Berwald had disappeared from the side of the hut and into the line of heavily-clothed Russians. Tino was nowhere in sight either. Perhaps he was hiding in one of the trucks carrying branches. Toris was more apprehensive about his escapes, but he did wish them the best of luck. All of the prisoners did the same. They may not all be of the same nationality, but they did have a few things in common: they hated Germans and they all desperately wanted to get the hell out of here.

 

* * *

 

Alfred was still wandering along the perimeter of the compound, occasionally tossing his baseball and catching it with his glove. The German guards regarded him with silent disapproval, but said nothing. Alfred stopped in a place between two towers and looked around. A plan was slowly formulating in his mind.

“Alfred!” someone shouted.

Alfred turned around and saw Feliciano rush up to him, smiling wide and very happy. His brother Lovino walked slowly and darkly behind him.

“Feli! Lovi!” Alfred cheered as he was pulled into a fast hug by Feliciano.

“Don’t call me that,” Lovino ordered, and made no move for affection.

Alfred laughed and patted Feliciano’s head. Feliciano looked up at him in such relief.

“Oh, Alfred. Thank god. You’re the only other American here! No one else from our team is here, you know? Do you think the other Americans were transferred?”

Alfred smiled. “Yeah, maybe! I haven’t seen any of the other guys here either.” Secretly, he wondered if they’d been taken by the Gestapo, but he didn’t want to tell Feliciano that. Lovino seemed to share his concern, as he grumbled something under his breath and turned away. “You wanna know something cool, Feli?”

Feliciano’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes please! Do you have a plan already?”

“I always got a plan,” Alfred grinned and ignored Lovino’s other low utterances. Alfred gestured to the towers with his chin. “See how those two towers are placed?” Feliciano nodded. “Well, there’s a blind spot right in the middle. The one on the end is too far. If I jumped in, they’d never see me. Especially at night.”

Lovino tossed his head back and gave him a glare. “For fuck’s sake. You’re crazy. There’s no way that would work.”

Alfred tossed his baseball in the air and gave him a playful wink. “Think so? Let’s find out right now.” Alfred tossed his ball over the wire, and it rolled to the tall fence.

The three of them paused and glanced between the towers.

“Congrats, idiot. What now?” Lovino said after a few moments.

Alfred looked at him. “Now I wait for the perfect opportunity. It’ll be super cool. Wanna stay and watch?”

Lovino shook his head. “I’m taking a walk.” He turned on his heel and headed the other way.

“Lovi?” Feliciano called, and before leaving, said a few last words to Alfred, “good luck!”

“Thanks man,” Alfred cheered and waved his glove as the Italians marched away. He turned his attention back to the towers. These Germans really never got bored of watching them, did they? _Get a life,_ Alfred thought.

Suddenly, a loud whistle echoed across the compound. And some Germans were ordering the Russian workers to get in line. They began marching, all of them slow and quiet, with their heads tilted to the ground and heavy tools perched on their shoulders. Berwald fit in very easily after he traded his cigarettes for a fur coat and a saw. Apparently Feliks managed to scramble in wearing a coat far, far too large for him. Berwald pressed his lips together when Feliks bounced beside him.

“Hey, hey,” Feliks whispered and his eyes were wide. “Do you know any Russian?”

Berwald glanced to the side. He wanted to ignore him, but Feliks really didn’t know how to shut up.

“Berwald! Did you like, hear me? I don’t know any Russian, man. Help a girl out!” he poked Berwald’s sleeve, trying to get his attention.

“ _Ya lyublyu tebya_.”

Feliks stopped poking and repeated the words. “ _Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu_ _tebya_ …” He glanced to Berwald again. “What does it mean?”

“I love you.”

“I…” Feliks bristled and a frustrated blush rose to his cheeks. “I love you? Oh my god. What use is that?”

Berwald shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. “Dunno. Wasn’t going to use it.”

“Oh my god, man. Oh my god,” Feliks complained. “What am I going to do if they stop me? I totally don’t know what I’m going to do.”

 _Then why did you jump in?_ Berwald questioned silently.

They managed to march all the way to the open gate of the compound until the commandant, Ludwig, ordered them all to stop.

Feliks was shivering in nerves, despite the enormous coat. Berwald stayed still with his saw.

Ludwig wandered into the group of Russians, looking crisp and tall in his uniform and black boots. He almost looked annoyed to be doing this.

He stepped in front of Feliks and sighed. “Get out, Lieutenant Lukasiewicz.”

Feliks’s eyes were practically bulging. “Oh my god,” he whispered and frantically removed his coat. He tossed it over the shoulder of a Russian and scurried out of the Russian line.

Ludwig stepped over to Berwald – perhaps the only person taller than him in the whole compound – and said, “you too, Oxenstierna.” Ludwig grabbed the saw from his shoulder and passed it to another Russian.

Berwald said nothing, and slowly left the line, in the same direction as Feliks.

Ludwig stepped aside and yelled, “march!” The Russians began moving again, and as they passed him he plucked a pitchfork from one of their hands. After the Russians, there came trucks carrying large piles of pine branches. Ludwig made eye contact with the drivers, and they came to a halt. Ludwig raised his pitchfork and stabbed once in the pile. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. He raised it again and before it plunged, a small British voice piped up.

“Wait, wait!” A boy – _really_ – a boy who could not have been older than nineteen, popped up and stood on the branches. He was covered in pine needles, but stood up proudly, if not childishly.

Ludwig shook his head and produced his notebook. “Your name?”

“Kirkland,” the boy said. “Peter Kirkland.”

Ludwig flipped through the pages. “Ah, Peter Kirkland. British.” He looked up and continued without humor, “you’re smaller than I thought you’d be.”

Peter frowned and clumsily stepped his way out of the pile and hopped onto the floor. “At least I’m not German,” he grumbled.

Ludwig shouldn’t let a comment like that slide. He shouldn’t be letting a lot of things happening slide. But it was the first day, and he knew the prisoners were testing him and the camp out: it couldn’t be helped. It was a soldier’s duty after all.

Ludwig put his notebook away and reclaimed the pitchfork. He continued his slow walk to the next truck and raised his pitchfork. This time he didn’t stab once before a whistle stopped him.

Ludwig glanced to the side and pinpointed Berwald as the whistler. Berwald dropped his hand from his mouth and watched Ludwig with no expression.

Then heads popped up from under the branches in both trucks, and men climbed out of the piles.

Ludwig would make a mental note that Berwald seemed to be one of the leaders here. Among those that climbed out, Ludwig recognized Tino, Raivis, Eduard, and the Vargas brothers. He sighed again. This was like babysitting children. Can’t look away for one second.

He dropped the pitchfork to the ground and clasped his hands behind his back. “I will not take action against any of you now. This is the first day here and there has been much stupidity and carelessness…” he paused for dramatic effect and cast his angry glare across the prisoners and the guards. “On _both sides_.”

Alfred was watching the entire event in avid interest. And finally he noticed that the guards in the towers were looking away. _Finally,_ a golden opportunity.

In deft movements, Alfred hopped over the low wire and walked to his baseball at the fence. He didn’t pick it up, and instead backed against the fence, pressing himself against it and determining whether he was right about the blind spot. He stayed there for a few minutes and a triumphant smile spread across his lips. Looks like he was right. Dang, he was just the coolest hero—

“Hey, you!”

Alfred’s heart sank and he looked fast to the compound. It was the Prussian in black that spotted him, and without warning the guards in the towers turned their machine guns onto Alfred, aiming at the dirt near his feet. Bullets kicked dust in the air.

“Oh—dang it!” he cursed and stepped away from the fence, waving his hands in the air, one of them gloved and yelling, “don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

The Prussian was sprinting to him now and with one hand signal the fire stopped.

Alfred turned around, arms still up, and gave him a dumb, innocent look. “Hey man.”

“You,” the Prussian put his hands on his hips and stared him down. “What are you doing? No one crosses the wire. It’s off limits.”

Alfred spun around. “What wire?”

The Prussian raised his voice and pointed to the ground, “this wire! The warning wire.” Alfred finally looked at it and gave a slow nod. But the Prussian was relentless and he continued. “It is absolutely forbidden to cross it. You know that. What the hell were you doing?”

“Oh, well I was just trying to get my baseball,” Alfred explained innocently. “See, my baseball rolled over. How am I supposed to get my baseball?”

The Prussian looked behind Alfred and he tilted his head, slightly confused. But in the next moment he was rigid and he shouted, “then you ask permission. Find a guard and ask for permission.”

Alfred shrugged his shoulders—that seemed to irritate the Prussian even more. “All right. Can I get it now?”

The Prussian crossed his arms and Alfred took it as consent to retrieve his baseball. He skipped back to the fence and picked it up.

“You! Don’t move! What are you doing?”Another German shout bellowed across the compound. By now a crowd had gathered to watch the next spectacle, and the guards had to push through to make it to the wire.

The Prussian didn’t bother to look, and in low German, he muttered, “ _god dammit Ludwig. Don’t kill my thunder_.” Alfred figured he wasn’t meant to hear that, or at least understand it. But he did pick up a few German words here and there during his stay.

Now it was the commandant marching swiftly to him, trailed by several other armed guards.

“What are you doing here by the wire?” Ludwig demanded, sharing a short look with the Prussian. “Gilbert?”

The Prussian – Gilbert apparently – opened his mouth to reply, but Alfred interrupted.

“Well, like I was telling ol’ red eyes here,” he smiled. “I was trying to cut my way through the wire because I want to get out.”

Ludwig glared at him and gestured to a guard. “Search him.”

“No need, man. I gotcha,” Alfred laughed and revealed a wire-cutter from his inside jacket pocket. He tossed it into Ludwig’s hand. Unfortunately, Ludwig caught it with practiced ease.

He eyed the wire-cutter and turned it over in his hands. Then his sharp, blue eyes were on Alfred again. “I have had the pleasure of knowing quite a few British officers in this camp. And I’d like to think that the British and I have come to an understanding.”

Someone laughed among the crowd. Alfred and Ludwig both looked—it was the boy, Peter, standing next to Matthew. He gave a cheeky grin.

Ludwig ignored him. “You are the first American officer I’ve met. Jones, correct? Alfred F. Jones.”

“ _Captain_ Jones, actually,” Alfred corrected.

“Seventeen escape attempts?”

Alfred smiled and glanced at the fence. “ _Eighteen_.”

“You’re a tunnel man. Engineer?” Ludwig continued.

“Flyer,” Alfred added.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you’re what they call in the American army, a ‘hot shot pilot’.”

Alfred smiled in a way that said _What can you do?_

Ludwig passed the wire-cutter to another German and cleared his throat. “Tell me, are all American officers so ill-mannered?”

“Hm,” Alfred hummed. “About ninety-nine percent, I’d say. Not all of them are as good-lookin’ though.”

Ludwig pursed his lips. “Then perhaps you will have the opportunity to learn some manners while you’re here.” He looked to Gilbert. “Ten days isolation for Jones.”

“ _Captain_ Jones,” Alfred corrected again, pointing to his badge.

Ludwig eyed him. “ _Twenty days_.”

“You’ll still be here when I get out?” Alfred jeered, but Gilbert was already at his side, pushing him to walk.

“Cooler _. Now_.” Ludwig ordered. Once Alfred was being led away he glanced to the crowd. “Peter Kirkland—cooler. Twenty days.” He allowed himself some mild satisfaction as he watched Peter grumble and be forcefully torn away from the rest of the prisoners, and pushed to follow Alfred in his walk.  

Ludwig smoothed his hair back. Always children, these prisoners. Always.

 

* * *

 

Lovino was sitting on the footstep of a hut next to Feliciano and near their friend Matthew. Matthew was standing with Berwald and Tino—the other two, Lovino wasn’t as close with. They were kinda odd after all, and they always had different jobs than Lovino when they worked on an escape together. But Matthew had always been patient with Lovino and Feliciano, so he felt a little more comfortable with him.

Lovino pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and held it between his lips. His hands searched his pants for a lighter, and the cigarette bounced in his mouth as he cursed, realizing he’d probably lost it again.

Then a man dressed in a blue uniform and crème turtleneck materialized by his side, holding a flame in front of him. Lovino jumped slightly, and turned with narrowed eyes at the man responsible. He didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t unusual. It seemed like Lovino didn’t recognize a lot of people here.

It was the Spaniard, Antonio, and he gave Lovino a dazzling smile and kept the flame there. “Need a light?”

Lovino said nothing and silently lit his cigarette against the flame and leaned back against the hut.

Antonio shut the lighter, and leaned against the wood of the hut. He was silent for a while, lighting his own cigarette and dragging it slowly to and from his lips.

Lovino cast short glances to him every few minutes, wondering what this man was doing here. Didn’t seem like he knew him, Feliciano, or Matthew. Definitely not Berwald and Tino. Yet, Antonio remained there, smoking his cigarette and smiling secretly at the people around him.

“It’s been an interesting twenty minutes, huh?” he prompted.

Lovino was so caught off guard he coughed his smoke out. It was annoying as hell when Antonio laughed. “It’s just the usual,” Lovino deadpanned. His eyes shifted to Antonio again. “You’re Spanish?” The accent was pretty damn obvious.

Antonio grinned and suddenly thrust his free hand to Lovino. “I am. Antonio Carriedo,” he announced. Lovino made fast work of the handshake and looked away. “And you are?”

Lovino ran his fingers through his hair, debating. But Feliciano looked at him expectantly, so he sighed and turned around. “Lovino Vargas.”

“Oh, Italian?”

“Unfortunately I’m American now,” Lovino rolled his eyes and dropped his cigarette to the ground. He stomped on it.

Antonio had an easy laugh. “Maybe right now that’s for the best,” he said. “Sometimes I wish I had moved to America.”

“You’ll regret it,” Lovino warned. “Stay in Spain. The food’s probably better there.”

Antonio looked pleased. “Have you been?”

“No,” Lovino admitted and he crossed his arms. “But I’ve read about it.”

“I’m very flattered,” Antonio smiled and let his own cigarette drop to the ground.

Lovino frowned. “Don’t be.” But a blush betrayed him, and he had to face Feliciano again.

Their conversation faded, and the two of them tuned to Matthew, Berwald and Tino’s talk—basically complaining about this morning’s failure. But then everyone shut up when they spotted German cars pulling just outside the gates of the compound.

Matthew practically gasped. “You don’t think that could be—?”

Berwald stared and said nothing. Tino stepped a little closer, and his face paled.

“Matthew, I think it’s the…”

“Gestapo,” Antonio finished. His voice was clipped and he suddenly pulled another cigarette from his pocket. Lovino was surprised at the abrupt change in tone, and swiftly looked to the cars again.

Uniformed German soldiers flew out of the car, and slowly, someone else dressed in a beige trench coat – a prisoner by the look of the handcuffs – was pulled after them.

“Big X,” Tino said and he grabbed Berwald’s shoulder excitedly. Berwald half-smiled in return.

“Oh, thank god,” Matthew grabbed his head and released a shaky breath. The next second, he pulled himself together and matched eyes with everyone near him. “Don’t pay too much attention. The guards here might not know who he really is. I’ll spread the word that Arthur’s here. I have to find Francis first.” Matthew practically _ran_ away, he was so frantic.

The rest of the group more or less kept their eyes on the event outside the gate. Arthur, or “Big X” as he’s known among other escaped prisoners, was escorted away from the car by the Gestapo and to the office building of the commandant. The Gestapo were eerie and each of them wore eager, violent expressions. They looked at Arthur almost _excitedly_ —because he was so close to landing in their “care” permanently.

Arthur tried his best to ignore them, and kept his eyes glued to the path in front of him. His hat had tipped on his head, but he didn’t bother to push it back in place with his hands handcuffed. He eventually ended up in Ludwig’s office. Ludwig was sitting at his desk, signing papers. He looked up when Arthur and the Gestapo entered.

One man, wearing a full-length leather coat stepped to Ludwig’s side and said, “the prisoner Arthur Kirkland is being discharged under your care Colonel Beilschmidt.” He dropped documents onto the desk carelessly. Ludwig looked at Arthur—whose expression was firm and pointed to the ground. Ludwig noticed a scar by his eye. No doubt the Gestapo had been cruel in their keep of him.

“We must insist that Arthur Kirkland be kept under the strictest confinement permanently,” the man in leather added.

Ludwig pursed his lips and pulled the documents in front of him. He picked up a pen. “I’ll make a note of that suggestion,” he replied tersely.

“Colonel, we have reason to believe that this man is the leader of numerous criminal escape attempts,” the man continued gravely.

Ludwig sat up straighter. He did not appreciate the tone. And he did not agree with the Gestapo. “Arthur Kirkland has been under the Gestapo’s care for three months, and you are telling me that you only have _reason to believe?”_

The man in leather pulled on his gloves. “If he once more falls into our hands…he will not be so lucky.”

Ludwig’s brows lowered and his gaze was strong. “Air force officers are the responsibility of the Luftwaffe. Not the S.S. or the Gestapo.”

The man in leather smiled. “At present, yes Colonel. That is why we have returned him to your care. Of course, if the Luftwaffe is not up to the task, all of the prisoners will be under _our charge_. I hope we have an understanding,” he said, and rose from his chair. He and the other Gestapo stopped near Arthur. “Squadron leader Kirkland,” he warned. “If you escape again, you will be shot.” They turned on their heels and faced Ludwig with raised hands. “Heil Hitler!”

Ludwig paid _very_ close attention to the papers he was signing and did not immediately respond. But the room grew tense, and he looked up to find the Gestapo eyeing him. Ludwig smiled complacently and stamped the papers. Slowly, he raised his hand and said, “heil Hitler.” But it did not sound very genuine.

The Gestapo narrowed their eyes and prepared to leave.

“Excuse me,” Ludwig called, and he held the document in one hand. Without a word, one of the Gestapo marched up to him, grabbed the paper and together they exited from his office. The door slammed shut and the smile disappeared from Ludwig’s face. He laid his stamp on the table with too much force.

Eventually, his eyes returned to Arthur, who had been breathing far more easily now that the Gestapo had left. He looked beaten and tired. But he did not regard Ludwig with much more favor than the Gestapo, and instead remained silent.

Ludwig clasped his hands over the table, and cast a fast glance to the German guard in the room. “Will you please un-handcuff him,” he ordered quietly.

The guard did as he was told, and it did not escape Ludwig’s notice how _relieved_ Arthur’s face was when his hands were finally free and by his side. Perhaps the Gestapo were right about this one. Perhaps he was going make a great deal of trouble for Ludwig. It should certainly count as warning that with his hands free, a slow determination crept across Arthur’s face and a vigor that was not their previously, lit up his green eyes.

But Ludwig did not agree with the Gestapo. At all. Or ever. He was going to grant this prisoner the same freedom as everyone else, and still maintain control.

With a nod, Ludwig dismissed Arthur to the compound.

 

* * *

 

Inside the cooler, Alfred sat against the stone wall near the door and threw his baseball against the other wall, catching it in his glove each time. He was thinking about the blind-spot, trying to formulate a plan for when he got out. Despite his depressing circumstances, Alfred remained ever positive, and his blue eyes were bright and focused as he threw the baseball again and again. And again.

“Jones!” someone, it sounded like the prisoner next to him, called. Must be Peter Kirkland, the little Brit. “Jones!”

Alfred stopped throwing and glanced to the door. “What’s up, man?”

“What did you do in the states?” Peter asked. He sounded curious. “Play baseball?”

Alfred laughed and rolled the baseball in his hand. “I was in college,” he said easily, and resumed throwing the ball. “Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“How many escapes have you tried?”

Peter chuckled. “Oh, four over, seven under.”

Alfred grinned. “Tunnel man, huh?”

“Not really,” Peter said playfully.

Alfred caught the ball and held it in his glove. A thought flickered across his eyes and he stopped. “How tall are you, Peter?”

“Five feet four inches. Why?” Peter asked defensively.

Alfred shrugged his shoulders and resumed throwing. “Oh, I was just wondering.”

A silence fell between them, and just the sound of the ball hitting the stone echoed in the cooler. After some time, Peter piped up again.

“What did you do in college? Study physical education?”

“Chemical engineering. But I did a lot of bike riding too.”

Peter’s voice sounded more excited when he replied. “Bicycles?”

Alfred laughed, and corrected him. “Motorcycles. You know, flat-tracks? Country fairs. Picked up some money here and there. Helped pay my tuition.”

“Oh, I did a bit of racing myself, you know!” Peter exclaimed excitedly.

“Bikes?” Alfred asked.

“No,” Peter giggled. “Horses! I was a jockey.”

Alfred nodded his head and turned the baseball in his hand. “Ah, jockey. Makes sense. Makes sense.” His voice trailed and he thought of the escape again. And that blind-spot. _Hmm…_

“Jones! Alfred!” Peter called again. “Are you there, Alfred?”

Alfred dropped his glove and ball to the floor, and scrambled to the door. He leant close to it and whispered. “Peter, you know the kind of clay and gravel we got here in the compound?”

“Yeah?” his voice was a hushed whisper too.

“How many feet do you think you could get through in say…eight hours?” Alfred was grinning, and his eyes were sparkling. This was so cool. So, so cool. Everything was falling into place.

Peter jumped up on the door and held onto the bars. He whispered back excitedly. “I could cut through this dirt like I was swimming in water.” He paused. “But you know it’s not the digging. It’s about the shoring up with wood, and getting the duct out. That’s what you have to worry about.”

Alfred pressed close to the door. “No, it isn’t Peter. You don’t have to worry about that. I got it all worked out. Trust me.”

“But how are you going to get the duct out?” Peter pressed, his voice curious and secretly eager.

Alfred grinned and closed his eyes. He loved the feeling of creating a plan. “What do they call a mole in Britain?”

“Um…a mole?”

“You got it,” Alfred replied happily. Yes, he had a plan now. He and Peter could do it together. As soon as they were free again, they would try it. In twenty days.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur walked through the gates with a heavy bag leaning on his shoulder. There was sweet freedom in being finally released by the hands of the Gestapo. But there was also a furious depression at being locked up once again, in yet another German camp. It was beginning to feel like a never-ending story. Or a curse. Maybe Arthur should start believing in luck, because it bloody well seemed like he had a lot of it. And none of it good.

Still, at least the Gestapo were no longer breathing down his neck. Once inside, he took a moment to relax. And as soon as he opened his eyes, he spotted a familiar face – Toris – jogging towards him. Arthur smiled and readily extended his hand for a shake.

“God, Arthur,” Toris said with exhausted relief. “You have no idea how happy everyone is that you’re here. We thought that…” he paused when he caught the scar near Arthur’s eye. Arthur didn’t look away, but his smile was beginning to turn down. Toris shook his head and plastered another smile. “It’s so good to see you. I can’t believe they dumped you here too.”

Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and gave a cursory glance around the compound. “Yes, what’s this one like?”

Toris raised a brow and looked around. He managed a weak laugh and said, “um, well it’s new?”

Arthur finally smiled again, but it was more wistful. “Right,” he murmured.

Toris gently pried the bag from Arthur’s hands and threw it over his shoulder. “Let me take that. How about we find Matthew and get you a bunk?”

Arthur nodded and followed Toris’s lead to the first hut. He noticed on his way some familiar faces—that pleased him. Arthur liked having the same crew to work with. It was a pain to work with new people.

Toris lead him through the halls. Everything was wood-paneled, crisp, but bland. At the last door, Toris stopped and turned the knob; he let Arthur walk in first while he remained at the door frame.

Inside, Arthur spotted Matthew standing by a small table. His face practically melted at the sight of Arthur, and Arthur had mixed feelings about that.

Did everyone expect him to be dead? Bloody hell, he was going to stir some surprise tonight.

“Hello Matthew,” Arthur greeted kindly and extended his hand. Matthew ignored it and embraced Arthur in a hug. “Very well then,” he laughed softly.

Toris poked his head in and said, “Arthur, I’m going to put your things down in your bunk. Take your time.” He shut the door behind himself, giving Matthew and Arthur their privacy.

“Dear god, Arthur. We didn’t know what to think when we didn’t see you here,” Matthew said fervently, and he pulled away. His eyes widened when he saw the scar. “Arthur, did they—?”

At once Arthur froze and he slapped Matthew’s hand away. “It’s nothing. Don’t mention it.” He stepped away and shoved his hands in his pockets. He sighed.

Fortunately, it was Matthew to change the subject first. “There are a lot of old friends here.”

Arthur closed his eyes, thankful Matthew was more forgiving—he didn’t want to even think about how much of a pain Francis would be. “Yes, I saw some. I’m glad to hear it. How long have you been here?” He walked to the window and looked outside.

Matthew joined him and glanced over his shoulder. “We arrived today. New camp, expert guards, the elite,” he said. “You met the commandant, right?”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to Matthew and back to the window. “I did, yes.” He wasn’t sure what to make of him, but he was a damn better sight than the Gestapo, that was for sure. Better not think too long about it.

Matthew replied a bit more tentatively. “What did the Gestapo and S.S. want with you?”

“They wanted to know who helped me get to the border,” Arthur said flatly. He was going to bury the subject there. “Who else is here with us?”

“A great many…Berwald and Tino for one,” Matthew began.

Arthur turned around and smiled. Smiled _genuinely._ “I saw Toris. So are Feliks, Raivis and Eduard here as well?”

“Yes, and the Vargas brothers.”

Arthur nodded. “And Francis?”

“Him too,” Matthew said. He watched Arthur dart around the room in an excited, furious pace. “He’s very relieved you are here,” Matthew added gently.

 _Oh, don’t you bloody start,_ Arthur thought.

He turned his back to Matthew and crossed his arms. “It sounds like we have the whole X organization here.”

“Almost,” Matthew agreed slowly. “As the commandant put it, they cleaned out all the other camps, and put us in this one. All of the rotten eggs in one basket, he said.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at the analogy, and returned to the window. He leaned outside and eyed the tall fence. “There’s madness in their method, that’s for bloody sure.” He tapped his finger, thinking very fast. “What about Tommy Bristol?”

Matthew was putting his nerves to work with the kitchenware; he had decided to make some tea. His hands stopped on the kettle. “He’s not here…but there is a Spaniard named Antonio Carriedo.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “Is he a scrounger? Blackmailer?”

“Feliks says he’s the best,” Matthew replied diplomatically. He warmed the water on the little stove.

Arthur turned away. “Good.”

“I’m making the last of the tea until the Red Cross come through again. I stole this from Feliks,” Matthew laughed softly. He left the stove and took a seat at the table. He had to try again. “Did the Gestapo give you a rough time?”

Arthur clenched his hands on the windowsill and his gaze was hard. He was staring at nothing. There was just fury—hot, boiling fury clouding his eyes. “Not nearly as rough a time I intend to give them.”

“Arthur,” Matthew sighed. It was his soft, criticizing voice. “Personal revenge should be kept out of what we have to do here, you know. Too many lives are at stake.”

Arthur turned around. He gave a short, dark laugh and walked to the empty chair and held the back of it. “What my personal feelings are, are of no importance. You appointed me Big X. And it is my duty to harass and confound the enemy to the best of my ability.”

Matthew looked down at his hands. “That’s true.”

“And that is what I intend to do, Matthew,” Arthur warned. His eyes were _electric_. “I’m going to cause such a bloody mess in this Third Reich of theirs, that thousands of troops that would be employed at the frontlines will be tied up here looking after us.”

“How?” Matthew prompted curiously. He heard the kettle whistle and rose from his chair to retrieve it.

“By getting more men out of this perfect camp of theirs than ever before,” Arthur declared, and his voice was gaining long-forgotten strength the longer he spoke. “We’re not breaking out two men or a dozen. But one hundred, two hundred prisoners, _three hundred_ —scatter them all over Germany!”

Matthew almost dropped the kettle. But he remained serious and poured the hot water over two cups of tea leaves. “Do you think that’s really possible, Arthur?”

Arthur whipped his head around, his trench coat spiraling around him. “The men are here to do it. They put every escape artist in Germany in this camp. You said so yourself.”

Matthew gracefully lifted the teacups from the counter to the little table and set them down. He sat in his chair looking remarkably controlled. “I must point out one thing to you, Arthur. No matter how unsatisfactory this camp may be, the high command did leave us in the care of the Luftwaffe. Not the S.S. and the Gestapo.”

Arthur laughed humorlessly and in disbelief. He leaned close over the table; his eyes were terrifying, but Matthew held a steady gaze. “Matthew, you’re talking like the S.S., Gestapo and the Luftwaffe are different thing, but to me they are the _same_. There’s only one way to put it—they are the common enemies of everyone who believes in freedom. The high command didn’t approve of Hitler? Then why didn’t they throw him out?”

Matthew pushed a teacup in Arthur’s direction and grasped his own. “I’m not arguing with you, Arthur. I’m merely pointing out the facts.” He took one sip and set the cup down. Then he smiled and looked to Arthur, for the first time in similar mischievous collaboration. “When are you calling the meeting, X?”

Arthur raised his head and a careful and slow smile appeared on his face. “Tonight.”

Matthew nodded, and for a little while, they enjoyed a rare quiet moment, drinking their tea. It almost felt like they were in Britain. Well, maybe if they closed their eyes and ignored the barracks, the walls, the guards, the compound. But it was nice to pretend for a moment. Just to be in Britain again.

 

* * *

 

Matthew may appear soft-spoken, but he was also incredibly efficient. And in his own secret way, persuasive as well. Like a magic ghost, he managed to find all of the important prisoners of the camp and beckon them to Arthur’s meeting that night. Arthur held no doubt in Matthew’s abilities, but he was still pleasantly surprised to find the number of capable faces waiting for him in the recreation room of one of the huts.

Matthew appointed one man as guard by the window, while he sat with Arthur in front at a desk. Arthur stood from his chair to address the audience.

“Gentlemen,” he began smoothly. “No doubt you’ve heard the immortal words of our commandant. Devote your energies to things other than escape and sit out the war as calmly as possible.”

Feliciano giggled, Lovino rolled his eyes, and others snickered at the comment.

Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the front of the desk. “And that is exactly what we’re going to do,” he said, staring each of them down. “We are going to devote our energy to sports, gardening…all of the cultural pursuits. And we are going to do it so bloody well that we put the wankers to sleep.” He tapped his finger on the desk and added, “meanwhile…we dig.”

He put one hand in his uniform pocket—the trench coat had long been discarded in his room. “Now, even a superficial look at the compound shows us that huts 104-5 are closest to the woods.” He raised one leg onto his abandoned chair and rested his arm on his knee. “First tunnel goes out form 104, directly east under the cooler and the wire.”

Tino flinched in his chair and blurted, “Why that’s over three hundred feet, Arthur!”

Arthur glanced to Eduard. “Can you make a survey, Eduard?”

“Already attempted it. I would say it’s three hundred and thirty-five feet,” he said simply, glasses flashing under the light.

Arthur nodded and removed his leg from the chair. He was standing again. Pacing. “Let me know when you have an exact number,” he said. “Tino, this time we’ll go straight down thirty feet before we go horizontal. That will rule out any question of sound detection, or probing.”

Tino glanced to Berwald who made no movement or expression. Tino looked back a little helpless. “All right, Arthur. But did you say the first tunnel?”

Arthur grinned and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I did. There will be three.” He savored the shock that flew across everyone’s faces. “We’ll call them Tom, Dick, and Harry. Tom goes east from hut 104. Dick goes north from the kitchen. Harry goes out parallel to Dick from hut 104. The wankers find one, we have another.”

Feliciano couldn’t help himself. He piped up and asked, “how many do you plan on taking out, Arthur?”

Arthur waited a moment, before saying, “two hundred and fifty.”

Confusion and shell-shocked surprise chorused in the room. Everyone was chatting, looking around, asking Arthur questions. But Arthur ignored it all and pressed forward.

“There will be no half measures this time, gentleman. There will be identification papers for everyone,” he declared boldly. His hand pointed in the crowd. “Feliks and Feliciano—we will need outfits for the lot.”

“Two hundred and fifty?!” Feliks shouted.

“Yes, and in civilian clothes.” Arthur added.

Feliks blinked and waved his hands around nervously. “Okay, I guess…but like?” he trailed off. “Okay, I guess.”

Arthur pointed his chin to Matthew. “Matthew—maps, blankets, compasses for walkers. Papers for every train.”

Matthew smiled and scribbled a note onto paper. “Okay, Arthur.”

Arthur took a long inhale to begin another order, but was halted by the sound of the door opening. He spun around and faced the latecomer.

It was Francis Bonnefoy, the French-Canadian. He wandered in looking remarkably well-dressed and poised, wearing a shade of cool indigo. He shared a small smile with Arthur – which Arthur immediately denied – and resumed a casual walk across the room. He touched the backs of people’s chairs to steady himself as he walked.

“Francis,” Arthur muttered. “You’re late.”

“We’re going to tunnel, Francis,” Matthew added, more helpfully.

Francis brushed a hand through his hair and took a seat. “How wonderful.”

Arthur tried his best to ignore him and reclaim his train of thought. He pressed his hand hard to his temple. Then he found it and raised his head. “Tino and Berwald, you’re the tunnel kings.” They nodded silently. Arthur looked to the others. “Toris, Raivis, and Eduard—you’re manufacturers. Feliciano and Feliks…yes, you’re the tailors. Someone needs to be diversions…Lovino, will you take care of surveillance again?” Arthur was running up and down the chairs now, shouting at every man present. “Raivis, have you thought of a way to get rid of this dirt?”

The small, almost diminutive man stared at him wide-eyed and looked away with a nervous smile. “Not yet…I hadn’t realized we were working with three tunnels, but I’ll get to work on it.”

Arthur nodded and continued marching. He stopped at Antonio Carriedo—the Spaniard he’d heard about. He was lounging in a chair near the Vargas brothers, smoking a cigarette and smiling.

“You’re Carriedo, right?” Arthur said and extended his hand without a smile. Antonio glanced at him and shook it shortly. “Scrounger?”

Antonio waved his hand dismissively. “Right.”

Arthur turned on his heel and glared at Francis. “Francis, I trust you’ll take your usual job.”

Francis turned his attention to him and offered a meaningful smile. “Why, of course.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and returned to focus. “Who’s handling security again?” Lovino raised his hand slowly, and Arthur pointed at him. “Right. You. I want a system of stooges covering this compound from front to back. Checking every wanker in and out. I want a signal system so perfect,” he caught his breath and noticed Lovino was shrinking back in his chair. “…That the Germans don’t get within fifty feet of the tunnels before we shut down the project without a sound.”

Arthur's glare slowly eased and he was able to return to the desk with more poise than before. “Well,” he coughed. “I don’t think there’s anymore point of exercising the plan now. Paramount in the details, everyone…” He looked to his right. “Can you think of anything Matthew?”

Matthew stopped taking notes and looked up. “I don’t think so, Arthur.”

“Very well,” Arthur said and he regarded the room once more. He didn’t have to like these people, because there were a great many that were positively infuriating. But bloody hell was he thankful for all of them at this moment. All of the greatest escape artists in Germany sitting in one camp.

Arthur laughed to himself. What the hell were those Germans thinking?

He was confident. He was positive. He was hopeful. He was determined. This plan was going to work. It _had_ to work. Arthur would make it work. The greatest escape ever attempted. And he would command it. Oh, victory would taste so sweet. Victory and revenge. The perfect last meal.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a soft knock on the door. The first time it was so soft, Arthur was sure he misheard it. But then there was a second knock, and he looked up fully from the notes he’d been writing to stare at the door. He pressed his lips together and sighed.

“Just get in here, Francis. I know it’s you,” he muttered.

Sure enough, when the door opened, Francis was the one standing. He smiled at Arthur and stepped inside. “What is this Arthur? Since when have you been able to sense my presence?” He laughed lightly and walked slowly to the empty chair across from Arthur.

“Well, Matthew’s out talking to the others—doing his job,” Arthur said evenly. “And no one else would bother visiting me this late.”

“Hm, well maybe if you smiled more, you’d be a little more popular.”

Arthur slammed his pen down. “Okay, what do you want? Why are you here?” His patience was terribly thin these days. All he could ever think about was escaping, leaving, but Francis was always the type to think about other incredibly stupid things.

At this point Arthur had leaned further over the table to glare at Francis, but when he matched eyes with him, Francis stopped smiling and leant closer as well. “Arthur, what the hell happened to your face?” His hand reached forward to touch the scar, but Arthur slapped it away.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Francis. I know you saw it earlier. It’s a little present from the Gestapo, all right? Drop it,” he ordered, his eyes dark.

Francis slowly recoiled his hand and held it to his chest. He looked down. “This is my fault, isn’t it?” he said softly.

Arthur slammed his fist on the table. “Bloody hell, I knew you were going to say that!” His shout made Francis jump, but he did not relent. “Listen here, Francis. It was in no way your fault. You were following my orders, understand? Be rational. If there’s anyone to blame it’s the damn Germans.”

Francis was quiet as he looked at Arthur again.

 _Great, he looks as though he’s about to cry,_ Arthur thought.

He had to dig down deep, but Arthur found a tiny bit of the compassion he was gradually losing. “Look, Francis,” he began more gently. “It’s better my face than yours, right? It doesn’t matter what I look like.” Not to mention, the thought of Francis being tortured by the Gestapo was one of Arthur’s more horrifying nightmares. There was no feasible way Francis would make it out with his mind intact: he was too sensitive.

Francis pressed his lips together and turned the other way. His fist was clenched on the table. “Stop being so cavalier, Arthur,” he said. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone was? How worried _I was_?” Francis looked at him again—his eyes shining in anguish.

“For god’s sake,” Arthur grumbled, and he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. Why was Francis always like this? He always had to make things so…mushy. Didn’t he realize there was a war? There was an escape they had to plan? “Okay, Francis. I’m, um—I’m sorry, okay? I think the Gestapo may have knocked the last of the gentleman out of me,” he offered as excuse. Francis was still staring at him. “Is there something I can do to make it up to you?”

Francis slammed his hands on the table, walked around the side, and without breaking eye contact, he lifted Arthur off the chair by the lapels of his uniform, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Arthur supposed he should have expected this. Well, if he was being honest, he did expect this. He was surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

He resigned to Francis’s advances with a stubborn sigh, and Francis gripped his hair and dipped him further back. Francis was a different person when things were sexual. Well, maybe it was just a different side to him. The more assertive side, the more demanding part. And by now, he knew Arthur all too well and everything he liked: this was very much routine for them.

When Francis had managed to push Arthur onto the bottom bunk, Arthur frowned and pushed Francis a foot away. “Hold on just a second, you horndog.” His eyes flicked to the door. “I live with Matthew, you know that. What if he barges in? Having someone watch must be too much, even for you.”

Francis laughed and made casual work of stripping off his shirt. “I told Matthew before I came in to stay out for an hour,” he gave Arthur a wink. “Probably won’t need that long though, right dear?”

“You fucking wanker,” Arthur scolded. He grabbed the back of Francis’s neck and pulled him back down.

 

* * *

 

 

After the meeting, Antonio lingered near Lovino and his brother, but they were curiously nervous and after only about thirty minutes conversation – where they shared their distaste for the newly intensified autocratic manner of “Big X” – Lovino and Feliciano stormed down the hallway, and Antonio was alone.

He shrugged his shoulders and relinquished to wandering back to his own cabin, wondering vaguely if he would finally meet his bunkmate.

Antonio walked in whistling another vague tune and gave a cursory glance to each corner. Wow, the room had changed drastically since he’d dropped his things off. Somehow, it felt as if it was more… _sparkly?_ Prettier? Fancier? But how could that be, because the room was almost exactly the same. Yet, there were new objects strewn about. Kitchenware, and _nice_ kitchenware, lying on the shared table; bedspreads laid out beautifully on each bed; and a leather-bound journal was placed atop the bottom bunk’s pillow. Cookies laid open on the table, looking delicious and tempting.

As he prodded the mysterious new objects, the door opened and… _oh!_ It was Francis, the French-Canadian walking in.

Francis was carrying a kettle of water and his face lit up when he say Antonio. “Oh, hello darling! You’re the Spaniard, aren’t you? Antonio?” Francis skipped forward placed the hot water on the table—he meticulously began pouring it over two tea cups.

Antonio smiled. “I am, yes,” he said and watched Francis at work. “You’re Francis, right?”

“The one and only,” Francis proclaimed, and he batted his lashes.

Antonio laughed and continued prodding through Francis’s many, many kitchen items. “So I assume you cook?”

“I do, yes,” Francis replied happily. “I used to own a restaurant. A _great_ restaurant. You would have loved it. Oh, I was so popular. You have no idea.”

Antonio watched him curiously.

Francis was still talking. “Would you like some tea? I don’t have any coffee. Couldn’t seem to find any, so I made due with stealing some of Arthur’s tea, which I think he stole from someone else.” Francis chuckled to himself.

Antonio shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, if you have extra.”

Francis poured water in both teacups before turning his attention to Antonio. His dark, blue eyes flicked across the room and the cabinet. “Where’s your kit?”

Antonio blinked and turned to the empty cabinet. “Oh,” he laughed, eyeing the bare collection of toothpaste and cigarettes. “This is it right now. They confiscated the rest in the last shakedown. The Germans didn’t appreciate some of my…” he pulled out his coat and retrieved a Swiss-army knife from a hidden pocket in his collar. Antonio flashed a grin. “They didn’t appreciate some of my more personal items.”

Francis watched him openly, and an understanding dawned on his face. He smiled. “Oh, I understand. You’re the scrounger!”

Antonio laughed. “Yes, I am.”

Francis was at once more serious and took a delicate sip of his tea. “I need a camera.”

Antonio paused and set down his knife. He raised a brow. “What kind?”

“Oh, a very good one,” Francis clarified swiftly. “A thirty-five millimeter F21 take with a focal shutter plane should do all right.”

Antonio scratched the back of his head in thought. Slowly, he replied, “all right.”

Francis looked at him again, expectantly. “With film of course.”

Antonio tilted his head and smiled. “Of course.”

There was a knock at their door, and since Antonio was the one standing he went ahead and answered it. There was Berwald, tall and severe, staring Antonio down.

“Antonio,” he said shortly. “I need a pick. A big heavy pick.”

“Just one?” Antonio asked.

Berwald didn’t even hesitate. “Two would be better.” He left the same minute and Antonio closed the door after him.

“I’m afraid Arthur’s tea is pathetic,” Francis complained wistfully. “These leaves must have been used a dozen times. Who on earth did he steal it from?” Francis sighed into his hand. “I’m not a tea man, but even I agree that tea without milk is horribly uncivilized.”

Antonio watched him with mirthful eyes. This was certainly not a companion he would have expected. Francis appeared kind, but particular. Almost nonchalant, but with a secret, hidden sharpness. How refreshing. Antonio was very glad they were roommates.

So, not wasting anytime, Antonio set to work already that night on his first task—collecting wood for Berwald and Tino’s pick. He’d start with the firewood in the huts, he decided. Eventually he’d have to collect more wood for the tunnel, but for now, just a little wood would do. He wandered into a common area, still whistling, and began picking up the extra firewood into his hands. As he was doing so, he thought of what Francis had said. Hm, well perhaps he could make a detour on the way back.

Antonio had his arms full of wood when he heard the German officers shout from outside.

“Close up! Close up!”

There were others in the same room, but once again, Antonio was the only one standing and he neared the window. “What was that?”

The German repeated in the same tone of voice. “Close up! Close up!”

Antonio slowly understood and pulled the glass panes of the window closed. The Germans soon boarded up the windows in heavy wood. Antonio shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room with his hands full.

This first task was an easy one at least (no big problems to work around just yet), and in just a few hours, he returned to his room carrying quite a lot of wood and a small container of milk. Antonio was struggling to balance the wood while he walked through the door, but as soon as he was one foot inside Francis spotted the milk container and plucked it from Antonio’s fingers.

“Oh, how wonderful, Antonio darling,” he cooed and set back to work on his tea. He had changed into sleep clothes Antonio noticed, but was set to work on another pot of tea—probably with the same leaves he complained about earlier.

Antonio set down his wood on the floor and regarded Francis curiously again. He just couldn’t figure it out.

“Francis?”

“Yes dear,” he replied. A gleeful grin was spread across his lips as he poured milk into his tea.

Antonio smiled, but it was a smile of confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh me? I’m in photographic aerial reconnaissance interpretation,” he said easily. “But I went for a ride to see for myself. It’s my own silly fault. The aircraft was shot down. Tragic, isn’t it?” Francis shook his head in playful despair.

Antonio crossed his arms over his chest, and he chuckled again. “No, no. I mean what do you do _here_?”

Francis glanced at him surprised—as if Antonio should have known straight off the bat. He smiled and it was almost romantic how beautiful it was. “Oh here?” he purred. Francis grasped his cup and held it near his face. “I’m the forger.”

Antonio laughed. The forger? Oh, for god’s sake. A forger and a scrounger in the same room. Well, there will certainly be hell to pay for someone. Antonio was so excited. What a companion to have. What an _interesting_ companion to have. A dynamic duo, that’s what they will be. But neither of them bestowing good luck. They had a bad touch to everyone but themselves.


	2. Tom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter pretty much followed the movie verbatim. Things will start deviating more and more as the story goes on, especially in the case of Gilbert’s character.
> 
> Also, Peter Kirkland is Sealand—don’t know if I mentioned that earlier. And the camp is based in Sagan, which Nazi Germany occupied. It is now a part of Poland.

1943

Sagan, Nazi Germany

For exercise, and also just a way to pass the time, the prisoners would take long walks around the perimeter of the compound. The guards didn’t walk with them, but they eyed them from their spots near the huts.

Arthur was walking side-by-side with Matthew—they used these walks to talk about the progress of the mission. Toris and Eduard were close behind them, joining in on the conversation as they needed to.

“So Francis has installed the forging team in the recreation hut,” Matthew said shortly. Arthur kept his gaze forward, but listened closely.

“We’ve set up the manufacturing team in hut 110,” Toris added.

“What about Feliciano and Feliks?” Arthur asked.

“They’ll be working in hut 109. I’ll work in hut 107. And Berwald and Tino will start in hut 104 on Tom,” Matthew replied.

“Good,” Arthur said, his face smooth. “We will need timber for the shaft and the infrastructure of the tunnels, once they get started. Do we have someone working on that?”

“Ah, Antonio has already taken up the task,” Matthew said. His eyes kept catching the intense stare of a particular German guard, but he tried to ignore it. He was too far away to hear anything anyway. “Antonio said there are thirty-six empty bunks. He can tear up half of them and take their wood. And the rest will have to come from the strips of the wall as we’ve always done.”

Arthur glanced to him. “Is he taking care of it himself?”

Matthew shook his head and looked ahead. “Not yet. He’s working on some steel for a pick that Berwald needs.”

Arthur nodded. “What’s his plan for that?”

“I think he might be working with the Vargas brothers on this one. He’s asking for a distraction while he lifts some steel from underneath one of the trucks.”

“Well, that’s one thing those boys are good at that’s for sure,” Arthur griped. Each of the Vargas brothers were excellent at their job, but their personalities were something Arthur could do without. He could do without a lot of things these days. “Once you have the steel how long will it take you to make the pick?” Arthur asked behind him.

Toris straightened automatically. “Depends on how well our diversions are for the sound, but I’d say maybe...two days?”

“Make it one,” Arthur declared.

Toris pressed his lips together and shared his annoyance with Eduard. But Eduard gave him a look that said _It is X talking after all._ Toris stifled his sigh. “Will do, Arthur.”

 

* * *

 

It took just one day for Antonio to acquire the steel, and one more for the manufacturing team to create the first pick. Before anyone dared to start the tunnel however, Lovino had to organize a team of surveillance across the camp—each person set up with their own signals. 

Around midday, Lovino stood against a pole, smoking a cigarette. He’d been standing there for at least an hour, maybe two, trying to get an understanding of the German guard’s movements. Fortunately, like everything else they did, it was efficient and meticulous: they couldn’t help but make patterns for themselves. When the German guard finally turned the corner, Lovino deemed it safe to give the tunnel kings the go-ahead.

He started the system, and with much ease, he tossed a piece of paper away in the trash. Feliks saw from his station at the step of a hut, and happily swung his scarf around his shoulder. Another person further down the line began washing a dish in the outdoor sink, and finally the last gave a knock to hut 104.

Inside the hut, everyone had been growing increasingly impatient. But with the knock, they all sprung to life. Berwald was first. He’d been standing arms crossed near the furnace, and with the help of Tino beside him, they grabbed two planks of wood from underneath the top bunk, and used them to lift the furnace away from its place on the floor.

Tino turned to the others and explained, “we’ll keep the furnace burning at all times. This way the Germans won’t feel like moving it.”

“Very good,” Matthew nodded. He sat at the desk with a cup of tea.

Berwald crouched down, and pointed to the tiles on the floor. “Antonio, we need new tiles. These are chipped.”

Antonio brought a hand to his lips and thought quickly. “There are some tiles in the bathroom of hut 113 which should match…”

“Good,” Berwald said. He lifted the tiles away, revealing some wire hooks he’d installed. With practiced ease, he pulled the heavy square block out and set it to the side: underneath was a layer of cement. Tino knelt beside him and wordlessly handed a piece of chalk. Berwald grasped it and drew a blue square within the form of the cement. Beside it, he wrote the number seventeen.

Antonio turned to Feliciano, who was standing beside him. “Why seventeen? Do you know?”

Feliciano blinked and explained, “this is Berwald’s seventeenth tunnel! He is the tunnel king, you know.”

Antonio raised his brows and looked back. _Seventeen tunnels?!_ Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of work. He supposed it made sense considering Berwald’s muscular frame and silent confidence. But still. Seventeen? That’s pretty mad. Of course, Antonio was worked hard only to find the easy way out, so they were clearly two different types of people.

As Tino was retrieving the pick from his coat, Arthur had stormed into the room looking absolutely _wired:_ his uniform was neat, but his hair was in disarray, and his eyes as hard as emeralds.

He didn’t waste anytime with greetings and immediately turned to Berwald. “Are you ready?” he asked. His voice was eager. Before he got a reply, he added, “is it big enough?”

Berwald was in fact, a very tall man. But he was strong and determined, and by now very adept at working in small spaces. “It’s perfect,” he said, and pointed down. “Goes through the middle of the foundation.”

Arthur smiled between him and Tino. “Good luck, boys.” He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to Feliciano. “Give Lovino the signal.”

Feliciano gently tapped the glass pane of the window, restarting the series of signals to let Lovino know they’re ready to start. Lovino had set up Eduard in the garden to hammer a pole into the garden. With the signal, he began hammering—Lovino had spent hours getting his timing down. It had to be the same pace each swing, so Berwald could copy it.

Inside, Berwald was crouched over the cement block, pick in hand. Sweat beaded at his forehead - the furnace was so near - and he listened carefully for the cue of the sound outside.

 _BAM_ …one, two, three… _BAM_ …one, two, three…    

Berwald threw down the pick. It was loud, but just about as loud as the hammering outside. He’d barely chipped away a piece of the cement. The beginning was always the most laborious part. It would take hours. Fortunately time was something they had a lot of.

Feliciano stayed at his post by the window, looking marvelously happier than most in the room. Arthur especially gave off a tense auro. Antonio was not tempted in the least to get near him, so he stayed by Feliciano.

“Is Lovino usually the surveyor in the escapes?” Antonio asked.

Feliciano looked at him, and his eyes were golden. “He is, but that’s because it’s kind of what he did when we lived in America.”

That sounded unusual, and Antonio tilted his head. “Oh? He worked security for some place?”

“For our grandfather’s gang, yeah.”

Antonio was so shocked he laughed. “Don’t tell me you guys are mafia…”

Feliciano was so casual about it all. He smiled and looked out the window again. “Well, mafia is what they call it in Sicily. But you could basically say it’s the same thing in Chicago.” Then he sighed dramatically. “It sure is a lot colder though. It’s miserable to do jobs in the wintertime.”

Antonio kept laughing to himself, and Arthur shot him a glare from across the room. But in fact, Antonio was relieved to hear it. Lovino and Feliciano were definitely two of the younger men in the camp, he didn’t have to ask as much to know it as fact. Antonio had been oddly preoccupied with concern over primarily Lovino at work. It was an important job, and if he messed up, well it could spell trouble for the operation surely, but also potential danger for him as Lovino as well.

But if Lovino was mafia…well, that should make this pretty interesting.

 

* * *

 

Things progressed without a hitch after that. Arthur had managed to organize the operation like a well-oiled machine. Perhaps it was thanks to his dictatorship. He didn’t let any laziness slide, and was constantly at people’s backs about doing their work perfectly. Once the first tunnel had been started, he went ahead and gave the order for Berwald to begin the second in the common bathroom of hut 105. There was a square drain of the same square dimension as the tile floor beneath the furnace—this was the starting point for tunnel Harry.  

After some time, Berwald had already managed to pick through the layer of cement, and was able to insert himself fully into the drain. But before they could calmly resume work and push through further, he and Tino had to wait for Eduard to commandeer a block of cement to hide the growing tunnel.

Berwald sat tense by the side of the drain - he’d already lifted away the grate - and shared a quiet look with Tino. They’d been waiting for some time now. Waiting was one of the harder parts of working an escape.

Then they heard marching footsteps, and it was Eduard pushing his way through the crowded bunks and to the bathroom. He was swallowed in a large, brown coat of Berwald’s, and Eduard kept it pressed close around him. As soon as he stepped into the bathroom, he opened up the lapels and revealed a square cut of cement.

Tino smiled as he took it. “Ah, well done Eduard. This is perfect.” He turned it over once before passing it to Berwald.

Berwald inspected it carefully from underneath his glasses, and deftly dropped it inside the square drain. It fit to the exact measurements, and he nodded. “This will do.”

“And here,” Eduard handing him a metal looking spatula.

Berwald grabbed it and used it to pry the cement block back up. With no smile he complimented Eduard’s efforts. “Very good.” He set the spatula aside and passed the cement block back to Tino. Then he jumped into the hole with a chisel and rock and began chipping away at the cement on the sides of the drain.

Berwald always started the tunnels, and Tino would be there to pass him supplies and water as needed. He would help more once they were deep inside the earth: creating the wooden infrastructure and installing lights and so on. Berwald never said much as he worked. He never said much anyway. But his expression was set in stern concentration as he chipped and chipped away, slowly creating more space for his broad body.

Lovino was standing by the door - it was nighttime, so he couldn’t watch from the outside because there was a curfew - and he watched attentively for any sign of German officers. He’d carved a hole in the door, which he plugged up with the same piece of wood. After some time, maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour, he spotted the fast pace of armed Germans. He swiftly plugged the hole and gave the sign to Feliciano.

Feliciano swiftly tapped the center furnace with a tin cup, and at once the entire crowd was moving. Most rushed to the area nearest to the door: buying more time for Berwald and Tino to clean up. After climbing out, Berwald dropped the chisel and rock into the tunnel, and Tino was by his side installing the new cement block over the hole. Eduard, who’d been standing near, grabbed the drain and threw it back in place.

Tino grabbed the bucket of water and tossed it over the bathroom floor, just as Berwald was stripping himself of his clothes to jump into the shower.

Germans were inside now, and they were yelling at the loiterers to get out of the way.

“All of you—move! Get in your bunks. Out of the way!”

Tino grabbed a mop and began pushing water across the floor. The shower was running, and Berwald hurried inside.

The Germans resorted to pushing the prisoners out of the way, until finally the one in charge was in the communal bathroom. He held his belt and looked around seriously. He pointed his gaze to Tino first.

“Why are you not in your hut?” he asked.

Tino held the mop and gave a small smile. “I’m mopping up.”

The German shook his head and glanced to Berwald standing in the shower. “And you?” Apparently he knew their assigned huts. Neither Berwald nor Tino were supposed to be there.

Berwald barely moved under the water as he replied, “need a wash.”

The German narrowed his eyes but turned away to Eduard, who’d perched himself over the wooden wall of the bathroom. “And you?”

Eduard adjusted his glasses and gave a very stern look. “I’m the lifeguard, of course.”

That comment, the German had no patience for. He turned on his heel and shouted, “all right, everybody back to your huts! At once! Move!”

Once the Germans had turned their backs and were exiting the hut from the way they came, Tino perched his head on top of the mop and gave a secret smile to Berwald.

Berwald’s hair was wet, and his glasses had been discarded to the side. He shared a rare satisfied smile with Tino. Tricking Germans was always a bonding exercise.

The Germans made a grand show of inspecting all of the bunks, tearing up the mattresses from their place and throwing off the covers. But they didn’t find anything. And with dissatisfied frowns and a few more shouts they left the prisoners alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred was staring at the wall in front of him. He managed to scratch tally marks onto the stone with a piece of rock he found on the ground. His hair was wild, and his eyes manic. He was so sure…so _positive_. It had to have been twenty days now, right? 

And just as he was going over the figures on his hands, frantically searching his memory to recall how much time had passed, footsteps echoed outside his room, and suddenly the door was swung open and a German guard stared him down.

Alfred looked at him expectantly. “What’s up, man?” he blurted.

The German gestured with his head. “Out.”

“Hell yeah!” Alfred grinned and quickly scrambled on the floor to pick up his glove and baseball. With an extra bounce in his step, he walked out of the cellar, the German guard close on his tail. Alfred threw a glance over his shoulder and spotted Peter walking a little ways behind him, looking just about as relieved as Alfred.  

This was the first time it hit Alfred just how _young_ Peter looked. Geez, it didn’t look like handled the cooler very well. But Alfred wasn’t afraid to make a fool of himself to cheer others up, so he comically lifted his hand in a thumb’s up. Although his arm was swiftly bat down by the butt of a German’s gun, he still smiled, because at least Peter laughed: and it sounded like a genuine laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur didn’t trust many people anymore, and that’s saying something, because he didn’t trust many to begin with. But joining the war hardened him, being shot down angered him, being imprisoned depressed him, and being tortured by the Gestapo ruined him.

He started out the war with Matthew, so Matthew he trusted implicitly. And it made sense anyway, since Matthew was very obviously well-meaning, respectful, kind, and intelligent. There was really no proper cause even for a person as difficult as Arthur to be anything but nice to him. And Matthew was very loyal, which Arthur appreciated. Unfortunately, they were shot down together. But Arthur supposed the silver lining of having one of the few people he liked was okay in the end.

Arthur was a planner. A general by nature. And he was far better at it than Matthew, because Arthur was hardly a gentleman any longer. War transforms gentlemen into pirates, and that was what Arthur was nowadays. He didn’t mind being ruthless, he didn’t care about being cruel. He was going to get what he wanted—and it just so happened that it was what others wanted as well. Matthew was his right-hand man, his logistics, and very often his conscience. And Arthur thought the arrangement was marvelous. But as always Francis had to barge his way in.

Francis decided to be the emotion of the operation.

Arthur and Francis weren’t familiar with each other before the prisoner of war camps, but they met in the very first one they’d each been trapped in. And right from the beginning, they had a very odd relationship. Francis didn’t belong in war or camps, and that very fact angered Arthur. It angered him because he, for some unknown reason, cared. Francis was infuriating, arrogant, and obnoxiously snobbish; but he had his redeeming qualities. He had the front of someone who wouldn’t dare lift a finger, but anytime Arthur ordered him a task, Francis was incredibly adept at fulfilling his duties. Because Francis, like each of his occupations required, was a person who appreciated the beauty of perfection.

Arthur finally came around to him when he noticed that Francis would work for hours creating the perfect forgery. Sitting at a desk by candlelight well into the night, and Arthur had to physically drag him from his chair to get him to bed.

Of course, they fought. And they fought terribly often. But Francis was as stubborn as Arthur was and refused to be kicked to the side.

Francis got along splendidly with Matthew (no surprise there), so he by all means, charmed his way into Arthur’s confidence. So even now, with the largest operation each of them have ever attempted, Francis was involved in all of Matthew and Arthur’s covert meetings. Well, whenever he could spend the time. Francis acted like he always had all the time in the world, which was anything but true. But once in a while, Arthur let him be there. Because it made Francis happy for some reason, and against all better judgment, Arthur liked making him happy. Occasionally. When it was convenient.

They were in Arthur’s room, and Matthew sat across from Francis at a table. Francis was dressed as elegantly as ever - perhaps the only prisoner with clean clothes - and he smoked a cigarette and Matthew debated something with him. Arthur was standing stiffly against the wall near the window, ignoring every smile Francis threw his way.

 _Listen to Matthew,_ Arthur ordered silently.

Francis’s lips would curl, and that meant he understood Arthur’s expression.

“No, no,” Matthew complained, and he held his face in his hand. The problem with being Arthur’s right-hand man, was that it was Matthew that had to deal with the details. “I just…Look. I know the plan is to put the Germans to sleep, but without this details the rest of the plan falls apart, don’t you see?”

Francis tapped his cigarette over the ashtray. “Yes, my dear. I do see. But what if—”

All of them paused at the knock of the door.

“Come in,” Arthur called and he maneuvered a little more central in the room to see who it was.

Toris appeared first, and he was leading two gentlemen inside. One of whom, Arthur knew all too well. But the taller, more robust, and very clearly _American_ —Arthur had not yet had the displeasure to meet. He’d only heard about him from Matthew’s reports.

Toris nodded to Matthew and let himself outside again, closing the door quietly.

“Ah, Peter,” Matthew greeted, and he pushed out the extra chair for him to sit.

“Mattie! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” Peter cheered and he jumped onto the seat and pulled Matthew in for an awkward hug.

Matthew laughed and patted his back gently. He caught Arthur’s glare and coughed. “Um, do you want to say hello to your cousin?”

Peter pulled away from the hug and looked to Arthur. Peter crossed his arms and turned the other way. “Why should I?”

Arthur pressed his lips together and copied the same defensive gesture. “Peter, why the hell were you in the cooler for twenty days?”

“Well, I was—”

Alfred interrupted with a booming laugh that caught everyone off guard. He quickly stepped forward to Arthur and extended his hand. “Oh wow, you’re Peter’s cousin? Man, that’s crazy. What’s your name?”

Arthur was so caught off guard by—by— _by??_ Everything. He dumbly stuck his hand out, and his arm was swung up and down in a vigorous handshake. “I’m, um…I’m Arthur.” How long had it been since he’d given his own introduction? Arthur hated to think he was self-absorbed, but dammit, had this man really not heard of him at all?

Alfred’s eyes glittered like the summer sky behind his glasses and he grinned wide. “Artie, huh? That’s a real British name,” he dropped the handshake and observed Arthur with some humor. “But you know what? It suits you. I like it. Artie the Brit.”

Arthur was still so absolutely flabbergasted. He really had no idea where his anger had vanished to. Once again, he asked the question he really didn’t mean to ask (or care) the answer to. “Um, and you are?”

“What?!” Alfred shouted and he stepped closer. “Are you tellin’ me you don’t know who I am? Then why’d that shy guy tell me to come to your room? He made it seem like you were real important too. Kept calling you ‘Big X’. Is that a British thing?”

Thankfully, before Arthur could embarrass himself further, Matthew kindly interjected.

“No, Alfred. It was me who called you in here,” he said calmly. And he extended his hand. “I’m Group Captain Matthew Williams. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Alfred turned to him—for the first time realizing that he was there it seemed. He smiled again and gave Matthew the same energetic shake. “Mattie! Yes, Peter mentioned you. Not much to do in the cooler but talk, ya know.” He laughed and looked to Arthur again. “Strange your name didn’t come up though.”

“That’s because I don’t like him,” Peter proclaimed stubbornly. And that— _that_ finally shook Arthur awake.

“Peter, stop being so childish,” Arthur ordered. “Wartime is not the right place for our petty feuds.”

Peter looked over his shoulder and stuck out his tongue. Alfred laughed again.

“Man oh man, you Brits are so funny,” Alfred scratched scratched his head, messing up his hair further. He pointed between Matthew and Francis. “Let me guess…Canadians?”

Francis was slightly ticked off: Arthur could tell that much, he just didn’t know why. Because when Francis was ticked off, his eyes were dark when he smiled. Absolutely no shine in sight. “What gave it away, little American? Our beauty? Our grace?”

“Nah, nah, man,” Alfred waved his hand. “You’re just quiet. That’s how I know.” He snickered to himself, which really should have been very insulting to everyone present. And yet, it didn’t sound hurtful, or judgmental. It was just…he found everything funny for whatever reason.  

Matthew coughed, trying to reclaim some severity in the room. “Um, Alfred. Arthur is called ‘Big X’ here because he’s the leader of our escape. And this here is Francis Bonnefoy, our forger.”

“Oh, that’s pretty cool, I guess,” Alfred nodded.

Matthew’s eyes shifted between Arthur and Alfred. “...Erm, right, well. I called you two in here, because I understand you guys are contemplating a blitz-out. Is that right?”

Alfred turned to Arthur—he was still standing far, far too close. “What?! Artie, don’t tell me you have ears on the walls, do ya?”

“No, Alfred dear. It’s Matthew that heard about it,” Francis said swiftly. He was definitely pissed off now. His eyes were pitch blue. “It’s Matthew’s job to know everything that goes on in this camp.”

“Oh, I see,” Alfred sing-songed. “You’re a bit of a spy are you?” Alfred winked.

A blush appeared on Matthew’s cheeks from confused embarrassment. “No, it’s just my job in this operation. I’m intelligence you see and—”

“Right,” Francis placated and he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “We called you both in here to talk over your plan.”

Alfred matched eyes with Peter and asked, “why? It’s only a two-man job. Don’t need you help, or anything.”

“Well, you see,” Matthew began with more confidence. “Everyone is supposed to clear all escape attempts with Arthur here. That’s the protocol.”

Alfred raised his brows. “Woah, man. You’re serious?” He glanced to Arthur again. “You the king of this place or somethin’?”

“We don’t want to interfere Alfred,” Matthew continued smoothly. “But we just—well, I guess I should ask first what kind of plan you have in mind?”

Alfred tossed his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s easy,” he said and clapped his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I gave this a lot of thought, so listen up! Peter and I sneak out at night to a spot I found near the wire: a blind spot. Then we dig straight down three feet,” he made the motion of digging. “Then, we spread it on top of us so it won’t make a pile. And then,” he pushed his hand forward in the air, eyes wide, “we go straight out.” Alfred pointed to Peter. “See, Peter here is a tunnel-man, so he digs in front and pushes the dirt behind him, and I stash it behind me. Then we just burrow through the ground like a couple of moles.” Alfred grinned triumphantly. “And by dawn we’re under the wire, across the open-space, into the woods, and home free.”

Everyone had been struck silent, but no one could pinpoint the exact reason why. Alfred’s presence had caused such a stir, it was hard to decipher what to react to first…

Somehow, Arthur had found his nerve again and he managed to give Alfred a grave look. “Well, when do you intend to try this?”

Alfred spun to him, his face bright. “Oh, tonight of course.”

Francis hummed to himself and held his chin in his hand. “Um, Alfred dear. I don’t know if this is quite the right time. You must have heard that we have a—”

“Francis,” Peter interrupted quickly, and he shifted his eyes to Matthew too. “I just want to get home. And I want to get home now,” he pleaded. Peter always seemed young, but now he looked even younger, like a child. And the way he regarded Alfred—it was like he was looking at his hero. “I know it’ll work. I know it will.”

Arthur bit his lip to prevent himself from saying anything he may or may not regret. Alfred seemed _very_ pleased, and Matthew more empathetic than before. Francis had very adamantly turned away now and lit another cigarette.

“How do you breathe, Alfred?” Arthur asked eventually.

“Oh, well we have a steel pipe with hinges on it and we shove it up and make air-holes with it as we go alone,” Alfred answered matter of factly. There was another long silence, and it felt even longer with Alfred’s loud stare shifting among them.

“Well, Alfred…Peter,” Matthew nodded. “You seem to have made up your minds, so I guess all we can do is wish you good luck.” He looked to Francis and Arthur and tried to catch their attention. “Right?”

Francis puffed out some smoke and waved his hand. “Yes, all the best.”

Arthur managed a small smile to each of them. “Good luck, boys.”

Alfred smiled, and it was softer than before. “Well, thanks for that Artie. I hope your grand escape goes well too. Better not mess up!” He raised one finger tauntingly. “Seems like the Gestapo already got ya once, right? Yeah, they’re annoying. That’s how I got my glasses,” Alfred pulled his glasses off and glared at them. Then he put them back on and laughed. “Anyway, let’s go Peter! Lot’s of planning to do.”

Peter hopped from his chair and scurried to Alfred’s side. Alfred pulled open the door and gave a last wave. “See y’all later!”

The door shut before anyone could respond.

Arthur blinked once, twice, three times to catch find his fortitude again. He turned to Matthew and glared. “Who the bloody hell was that annoying bastard?”

Matthew was looking over his notes again and he looked at Arthur with confusion. “It was Alfred. The American pilot. I told you he was rumored to be a character.”

“A character is one thing, but a monstrosity is another,” Arthur declared forcefully. “My cousin is in his care, for god’s sake. Shouldn’t I have an extra warning? He just called the bloody Gestapo ‘ _annoying'_!”

Francis took a long drag of his cigarette before he offered his snarky reply. “Arthur, stop being coy. We all know you liked him.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide, and his frown was violent. _“What did you say?”_

“You liked him,” Francis quipped. “You were actually struck speechless. What else do you call that but your odd affection.”

Arthur marched forward, yanked the cigarette from Francis’s mouth, and tossed it out the window. “It’s called being blind with fury!” he shouted, and stormed out the room without another word.

Francis sighed and rested his chin in his hand. “His hard-headedness is too much sometimes.” He looked outside, watching Arthur march across the compound.

At some point Matthew lifted his head from his notes and blurted, “you know, their plan is so stupid it’s actually brilliant.” He paused and caught Francis’s evasive gaze. “Oh, but it’ll bring all the Germans in the camp crashing down on us.”

Francis pursed his lips. “I disagree,” he said. “Perhaps Arthur is being too clever. If we stop all the breakouts, it might convince them that we must be tunneling.”

Matthew was quiet and eventually nodded his head in agreement. After some time, he added, “well, I hope it works. If it doesn’t, those two are going to be in the cooler for quite a long time.”

 

* * *

 

The escape was a failure. 

Alfred and Peter were brought back to the camp covered in dirt and looking absolutely livid. Well, Alfred looked livid, and Peter actually looked distraught. Francis had caught a glimpse of them on their return and laughed, which all the more angered Alfred.

They were shoved into the cooler without a word at how long their stay would be.

Alfred was resigned to their punishment, and decided to use the time to contemplate his next blitz. But he didn’t know that in the other room, Peter was more distressed than ever now. His fragile boyishness was crumbling, and he spent too many hours crying into his knees.

Who knew how long they’d be in there this time?

 

* * *

 

Tunnel Tom was progressing beautifully. Arthur frequently stopped by to check on its progress, and as ever the tunnel kings were living up to their title. Tino and Berwald had already managed to push deep into the earth underneath the hut. Antonio and Eduard had managed to set them up with some lumber for the initial infrastructure, and they were pushing through very efficiently. 

The problem now was what to do with the dirt?

Arthur had called another meeting: this time it was just him, Matthew, and Tino.

“So, Arthur,” Tino began. He dropped a pile of dirt from one sack. It was dark brown and rich. “This is the dirt from the tunnel.”

Matthew dropped a pile of dirt from another sack. “And this the dirt from the compound.” It was bright red and dry.

Arthur practiced dropping some of the dark dirt over the dry dirt. He sighed. It was so damn obvious no matter how you looked at it.

“Wherever we put it, they’re going to spot it a mile away,” Matthew complained.

“Maybe we could put it under the huts? It’s dark enough under there,” Tino prompted.

Matthew shook his head. “No, that’s the first place they’d look. I saw Germans inspecting there the other day.”

Arthur rose from his chair and began pacing the room in thought.

“Is there a way for us to dry it out to the same color?” Matthew asked tentatively.

Tino smiled sadly and let the dirt fall between his fingers. “We’re going to have fifty tons of it…”

“I was just thinking out loud,” Matthew replied softly.

Arthur looked at him hard and frustrated. “Well, if you must think, think clearly,” he ordered. Then with a laborious breath he murmured, “where the hell is Raivis with the answer?”

Matthew had leaned over the table looking forlornly at the piles of dirt. “We can’t destroy the dirt and we can’t eat it,” he said. “So all that’s left is to disguise it.” His head fell and he sighed. “But how?”

Then like an answer to a prayer the door opened without a knock. The diminutive, blond man - Raivis - was there with a blanket over his arm. He looked absolutely wild with excitement.

Arthur was the first to address him, and as always it began with criticism. “Didn’t they teach you to be prompt?”

For once, Raivis was not bothered by Arthur’s tone and he looked up at him actually eager. “Arthur, you’ll never believe it, but I think I have the solution!” he proclaimed, and walked over to the table. Arthur followed closely, and Raivis continued, “so the problem is to somehow get rid of this tunnel dirt over the compound."

“Yes, of course!” Arthur shouted. “Stop stating the obvious. What is your _solution?”_

Raivis actually _smiled_ , and he threw the blanket off of his arm and handed it to Tino. Then he turned away and adjusted something over his neck. He shifted back around, and over himself he had a long piece of cloth that extended to his thighs, attached to small white sacks on either side. “Now, you fill these bags,” he lifted the white sacks, “with dirt from the tunnels. Then, wearing them inside your pants, you pull these string inside your pockets…” Raivis dropped the white sacks to his sides, and tugged at the fine strings. “Out come the pins, and the dirt falls to the floor,” he said, as the dirt fell just so beneath him. “All you have to do next is kick it in!”

Raivis made a grand display of kicking the dark dirt across the tarp set across the floor, and he looked for approval from Arthur. But Tino spoke first.

“Raivis that’s brilliant!” he exclaimed happily.

Raivis nodded nervously, and added, “unless you’re a complete fool the Germans won’t notice a thing.”

“It’s incredible!” Matthew added ecstatically and he looked to Arthur. “Don’t you think so?”

Arthur smiled cautiously and said, “We’ll try it first thing tomorrow.”

Now Raivis was jittering in his shoes. “I already have! It works.”

Matthew, Arthur, and Tino all turned to him in the same way.

_Thank GOD. Now let’s think of how to put it to work._

 

* * *

 

 

By Arthur’s orders and Francis’s pleas, the prisoners had grown quite accustomed to the routine of gardening, so at least it wasn’t anything new.  

Two days after Raivis had announced his new invention, Feliks and Feliciano were put to work on creating as many as possible, and Matthew distributed them across the compound.

And on the third, in the midst of sunshine, the prisoners were gardening in the compound. Francis was leading the efforts, primarily because it was him that was concerned about the product of their work (he was the chef after all). But Arthur couldn’t miss an opportunity to order the other prisoners around, so he too practiced gardening his own plot.

As almost half the prisoners gardened the other half was milling about the grounds and occasionally stopped over the gardens to deliver a similar message.

“Arthur says hello,” Feliciano said, and dirt fell through his pants.

Francis smiled and raked the dirt into the garden. “Oh, is that so? How nice?”

Lovino stomped onto Arthur’s plot and muttered, “the French bastard said he hates you.” Dirt fell near his shoes.

Arthur rolled his eyes and furiously raked it in. “What’s new?”

And with a routine like that, they managed to disguise the dirt into their gardens. But that wasn’t enough. They were working on three tunnels after all, and that accumulated a lot of dirt. So during their morning march arounds, most wore the invention.

As they marched Antonio stood beside them. He yelled, “all right, let’s look sharp!” He marched in place as the others moved forward and watched them pull the pins from their trousers and kick the dirt in as they marched. Antonio watched and watched until he was satisfied and said, “okay! That looks sharp.”

He followed after them.

But occasionally, the commandant would descend from his office and observe all of the prisoners at work: he seemed especially fond of visiting them as they were gardening (perhaps it was the tools).

He visited one day, escorted by many guards, one of which was the Prussian many of the prisoners had run into, and Ludwig kicked the earth of the garden as he inspected it.

This was Francis’s garden, and everyone near it had all but froze at the commandant’s presence.

Ludwig finishing kicking a rock and said, “please gentlemen, don’t stop for me. This is just a routine inspection.”

Arthur wasn’t gardening at the moment, and was instead lingering with Matthew near Francis by the door of the hut. He shared eye contact as indiscreetly as possible, and tried to remain casual.

Ludwig spotted him and walked in his direction. He half-smiled and said, “I am sorry the soil isn’t better suited to gardening.”

Arthur took a breath to compose himself and nodded his head. “We’ll manage sir.”

Unfortunately, Ludwig continued. “I must say I am surprised at the extent of the prisoners’ activity here in the camp. Pleased of course, but surprised. Flyers are gentlemen not fit for digging dirt, and that is why I am surprised.”

Somehow, Arthur managed some humor. “The English have always been keen on gardening.”

Ludwig raised a brow and glanced down at the dirt. “Yes, but I thought it was flowers?”

Francis popped up from his rake and said, “you can’t eat flowers.”

The Prussian was snickering in the background, but only Francis seemed to hear it.

“Good point,” Ludwig acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head. “Have a good day.”

It took a while for the grand group of Germans to finally leave their line of sight, and no one felt comfortable talking until then.

“I have the worst feeling he knows exactly what we’re doing,” Matthew murmured worriedly.

“Maybe he does,” Francis joked and he continued working his garden.

“You don’t really think so do you?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck before crossing his arms again. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

 

Matthew walked into Antonio’s room without knocking one morning, looking a little winded, and carrying a box full to the brim with supplies. Antonio had been smoking a cigarette near his window, but at the sight of Matthew he quickly put it out and dropped it outside. 

“Okay, Antonio. I have some Christmas presents for you,” Matthew said lightly. He pushed Francis’s many things to the side, and dropped the box onto the table. “So we have two packets of biscuits,” he said as he unpacked the box. “Two tins of coffee. One jar of olive oil. Six packs of cigarettes. One strawberry jam. One blueberry jam.” Matthew pulled out the last jar and set it down. “And one marmalade.”

Antonio knelt underneath the bottom bunk and retrieved another container. “And some Danish butter,” he grinned and plopped it in the pile. “Some German’s thing. He seemed to have dropped it.”

Matthew chuckled, and produced something from his inside jacket pocket. “Ah, right. And two Dutch chocolate bars,” he finished. “That cleans out all of the gift food for the entire organization. Most of them parted with them pretty bitterly, let me tell you.” Matthew stood up straight and turned his palm. “Now the first thing we need is the new form of travel permit. We have no idea what it looks like, and we can’t move without it.”

Antonio picked up a chocolate bar and turned it over. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen chocolate. He gave Matthew a quick nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And of course, any other identification cards, personal papers…documents you can get your hands on,” Matthew said as he counted off his fingers. He picked up the empty box and tucked it under his arm.

Antonio set down the chocolate bar in the pile of rare delicacies. “Right.”

“Okay then,” Matthew gave him a short wave and small smile. “Put them to work, Toni.” He walked out of the room as quietly and swiftly as before. Matthew was one of the busiest men in the operation, so he never stayed anywhere long. He was Arthur’s second-in-command, and he seemed to do most of the legwork for him too.

Antonio scratched his chin in thought. Travel papers, huh? He’d definitely have to corner one of the German guards. It’d be hard to pick-pocket them without talking. Okay, not hard. Impossible. So he needed one that would be willing to hold a conversation with him.

He looked at the food most men, German or otherwise, hadn’t seen in _months_ and grinned.

Perhaps it was time to charm the funny Prussian again.

 

* * *

 

 

Being surveyor, sometimes meant leading the distractions. Lovino detested this part of the job, but leading a large group of men in choir was oftentimes the easiest and most efficient way of inducing a large amount of noise. 

So he grit his teeth and bore the humiliation. Even as Antonio walked past laughing, he continued. Lovino led them in Christmas carols. It wasn’t anywhere near Christmas, but dammit they were the only songs he, the Brits, and Canadians could agree upon.

After perhaps the third time singing “Oh ye faithful” the German guards passed them, and Lovino deftly gave the signal to the manufacturing team.

Inside the hut closest to them, Eduard, Raivis, and Toris set to work: hammering in tune with the song. As odd as that may be.

Arthur burst through during their work hours, lamenting, “Toris, _where the hell_ is the air pump?”

Eduard rolled his eyes from his workstation and said, “patience is a virtue, Arthur.”

“But not a virtue we have time for,” Arthur quipped. “The diggers can only work with the traps are open, and this is holding us up very badly.”

Toris maneuvered around the hut to lift some planks from the wall in the room: he revealed the air pump looking absolutely pristine.

“Is it finished?” Arthur asked impatiently.

“Of course,” Toris said, as he placed the pump on the table.

“Well, why isn’t it in then?”

“We’re working on the air ducts now,” Eduard declared over his shoulder.

Arthur frowned. “Well, when will _they_ be finished?”

Toris shared a look with Raivis and shrugged his shoulders. “One or two days?” He made a display of working the air pump to prove to Arthur that it was working.

“Will it give us enough air?”

“Of course it will.”

Arthur grinned and gave a rare compliment, “excellent work, gentlemen.” The manufacturing team beamed as Arthur turned to the doorway. But before he flew out the door he gave one last command: “Have it in by tomorrow night.” And the door shut behind him.

None of them ceased. But as Eduard and Raivis hammered they glanced back at Toris.

Toris groaned over the air pump. _Not again._ How were they supposed to get this done in a day?

…But Arthur was the boss after all. They had to do the impossible to suit Arthur’s schedule.

 

* * *

 

 

Ever since the first day at the camp, Antonio had kept a close eye on the Prussian. Most of the other German guards were eerily stoic, not opening their mouths unless it was to shout or criticize; but typically they didn’t even do that and preferred to use force to get their point across.

The Prussian…well, he was definitely different. As far as Antonio could tell from his minor observations, the Prussian was one of the higher ups in the compound. Not on par with the commandant of course, but aside from him, there was no one else in the camp giving the Prussian orders. Just like his first impression, the Prussian was definitely intense. Anyone could feel his gaze when it turned to them. And not just because it was red. It was because it was _knowing._

In a way, the commandant lived in a separate world than the prisoners. He often stopped by, and he always had a thorough way about him when he walked across the compound. But Antonio wasn’t as worried about his perceptions as much as the Prussian. The commandant had a certain nobility about him: definitely the Luftwaffe installed a strong code of right and wrong in him. Or the German upper-class version of it anyway. He was definitely against the prisoners, but he didn’t look at them with hate really. Just a bit of disdain.

The Prussian, perhaps because he was on the grounds of the camp so much more, picked up on cues far more quickly. Apparently, he’d already had run-ins with several of the other prisoners already. Before he was going to approach him, Antonio decided to get some advice from Lovino.

With his job as surveyor, Lovino was almost always outside. So Antonio just had to walk down a few rows of huts to eventually find him standing by a pole. He glanced at Antonio shortly and said, “I’m working.”

Antonio smiled easily. “I’ll be fast,” he promised.

Lovino rolled his eyes. “Doubt it. But lay it on me anyway.”

Antonio shoved his hands in his pockets and gestured to the Prussian standing by the wire. He was pretty faraway, but the silver hair still glinted. “You see that guard there. What do you know of him?”

Lovino followed Antonio’s gaze and at the sight of the guard he tensed up. “Oh fuck,” he muttered. “That’s Gilbert Bielschmidt. He’s the one that tackled Feliks last week.”

“He tackled him?” Antonio repeated, his tone rising. He didn’t think he’d have to worry about violence with this one, but it seemed he was wrong.

“Well,” Lovino coughed. “I mean, Feliks was trying to steal some food from a German officer.” Lovino seemed to be giving this information away reluctantly. “And he did try to run away…but still Gilbert’s an asshole who doesn’t miss anything. I’d stay clear of him.”

Antonio laughed at the story, and Lovino glared at him for it. Still though, he had to admit, “I’m kind of surprised to hear that. Gilbert seemed to be kinda funny when I talked to him. Like he was bored.”

Maybe he _was_ bored. Gilbert seemed like the type with a lot of energy, and after all, he was trained Luftwaffe: guarding some prisoners can’t be what he wanted to do with his life.

“Funny?” Lovino asked darkly. “You know he’s the commandant’s brother, right?”

 _Bielschmidt, Bielshmidt._ The penny dropped and Antonio laughed a bit embarrassed. “Oh my gosh, you’re right.”

“Idiot.”

Antonio kept laughing, but he thought he may as well ask for a little more advice. “Anyway, have you noticed any quirks about him? Does he seem to like anything unusual?”

“I can’t believe we’re still talking about this asshole,” Lovino muttered. “I don’t know his whole life story. I do know that he gives me the most trouble, because his movements aren’t the same as the other Germans,” he sighed tiredly. “Aside from that…fuck. I don’t know? He stares at the sky a lot. That’s kinda weird. He also tends to hang around Francis’s garden, but he might just be hungry. Haven’t caught him stealing anything yet though.”

“He’s hungry? Oh perfect,” Antonio smiled. He’d heard what he needed, so now he just had to prepare a few things. But first, he leaned close to Lovino.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“This!” Antonio kissed Lovino on the cheek: just a peck. But it was enough to send him stumbling backwards by a violent shove to the chest.

“BASTARD!” Lovino shouted. And oh, was he absolutely red. “I only accept payment in cigarettes and tomatoes—stop being a cheapskate and make yourself useful!”

Antonio laughed, but it was a little wheezy. He didn’t expect Lovino to be capable of such a hard push. Jesus.

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, Lovino was right. Gilbert did stare at the sky a lot. When Antonio found him in one of the huts, he was standing near the window looking intently upwards.

So after lighting his cigarette he strolled beside him and said, “beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Gilbert straightened to attention at once and swung his head around with eyes red and ready to order. But when he saw Antonio, and after he registered the words, he seemed to relax ever so slightly. Without smiling, he replied, “it is.” He watched Antonio for a moment longer, analyzing him, then turned away.

Antonio continued smoking, and very purposefully blew smoke in Gilbert’s direction. He caught Gilbert glance at him every so often and Antonio smirked. With much practiced grace he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and passed one to Gilbert. “I’m sorry, would you like one?”

Gilbert blinked and Antonio could tell he was trying to figure out a motive. But he still took it. “Thanks,” he said. His smile was very tight, like he was trying to withhold his humor. “But I’ll have to smoke it later. The commandant is a real hardass about that sort of thing.”

“Oh, well in that case, take a few more,” Antonio cheered and took the liberty of tucking cigarettes into Gilbert’s breast-pocket. “I’m sure you have friends.”

Gilbert laughed this time, but it looked like he didn’t mean to. “You really have no idea how the German army works, do you?”

“No, not really,” Antonio said easily. He took long drags of his cigarette.

Gilbert was torn—that much was obvious. But eventually a reckless and stubborn streak glinted across his eyes and he grinned genuinely. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m going to smoke it now,” he declared boldly. He pulled out the cigarette and a lighter from his back pocket and pointed to Antonio. “There’s only you to tell on me, Spaniard. Remember that.”

Antonio’s smile was wide. “I will.”

Gilbert lit his cigarette, looking very proud of himself indeed. He looked outside again and peered at the sky. “Ugh, I think it might rain later.”

“Oh, no, no,” Antonio reassured. “Red in the morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. It was a red sky last night.”

Gilbert chuckled, and it was a very funny sound. “Never heard that before. Sounds American.”

It definitely was. Antonio had picked it up from Lovino. But he thought it may be useful. “I learned it in the boy scouts.”

“You were a boy scout?” Gilbert perked up.

“Yes.”

“So was I!” Gilbert exclaimed very excitedly. “I had nineteen merit badges.” His face gleamed in arrogance.

“Oh, is that so?” Antonio said. “I had twenty.”

Gilbert paused and his mood temporarily turned sour. “Yes, well I was working on my twentieth when the government abolished scouting and sent me to the Hitler youth instead.” He furrowed his brows and puffed on his cigarette.

Antonio put his cigarette out on the window sill and let it drop outside. Then he crossed his arms. “Hey, Gilbert, do you think you’ll stay in the army after the war?”

Gilbert laughed loudly. “ _Hell no_. I’m doing my own thing after this. I’m sick of following other people’s orders.” He went still for a moment and turned to Antonio very deliberately. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this.”

“Oh please,” Antonio waved his hand dismissively. “It’s a soldier’s right to complain.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes, muttering something about Spaniards. “Maybe in your army, but here if you say something like that they ship you off to the Russian front.” He shook his head. “Bastards.”

“Is that so?” Antonio made a very sad face and pressed his fingers to his temple. “That’s terrible. _Terrible_.” He paced a few steps away, letting a silence settle again. Then he looked back. “Hey, Gilbert? How about we go to my room where we can talk more comfortably?”

Without thinking Gilbert stepped forward, but then the instinct hit him and he pressed his lips together seriously. “Better not. If anyone should see me…” he sighed and grumbled something in German.  

Antonio lingered by the door and threw out some more bait. “Well, I was just going to make some coffee,” he said. “Some _real_ coffee.” He watched how Gilbert alternated glances between him and the window now. Antonio smiled and waved his hand. He walked to his room, very certain Gilbert would follow. So he stayed by the outside of his room, the door left open, and waited until Gilbert’s black uniform turned the corner. He no longer carried his cigarette, and he marched into Antonio’s room with very careful eyes.

Antonio smiled and shut the door behind them. Gilbert was standing near the bunks, hands clasped behind his back, and Antonio could feel his gaze watching him unlock his cupboard.

“Now, let’s see,” Antonio sang. He dug through the very full cabinet. “Not this,” he said and put down the marmalade. “Not these.” Out came the two jars of jam.

Gilbert shuffled over and gazed at the objects with wonder. “Holy shit, is that jam?” He held it up curiously.

Antonio looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Oh yeah, my grandmother keeps sending me this stuff.” He pulled out the two bars of chocolate and tossed them onto the table.

“No way,” Gilbert muttered in disbelief. He grabbed a chocolate bar and turned it over. His eyes were sparkling like a child’s. “Chocolate? You have chocolate?!” He laughed and picked up the other one.

“Oh yeah,” Antonio said and pushed the chocolate bar into Gilbert’s chest. “Keep it.” Antonio whistled and pulled out the olive oil, a pack of cigarettes, and ah…the Danish butter.

Gilbert was too sharp to miss it, and at the sight of it, his smile vanished and he picked it up. “This is my butter,” he said very slowly and his face grew more and more stern. He looked at Antonio accusingly.

“You can have it back if you like,” Antonio offered, and pushed the butter into Gilbert’s arms too. “It’s on me.”

Gilbert’s glare was angry, and the soldier was back. He dropped the butter and chocolate bar to the table violently. “I have to report you. You’ll be sent to the cooler,” he declared and turned on his heel.

Antonio swiftly picked up the chocolate bar and latched onto Gilbert’s arm. He laughed and matched Gilbert’s glare. “Oh, come on now Gilbert. It’s all in good fun. Take it back, and some chocolate too!”

Gilbert pulled his arm away and grabbed the doorknob. “No, I have to report this.” He opened the door, but Antonio slammed it shut.

“And report what?” Antonio smiled tauntingly. “That you were in a prisoner’s room talking to him and hanging out? Won’t that get you sent to the Russian front?”

Gilbert was still frowning, but now he was more uncertain. He opened the door again, and said, “I have to go.”

Antonio shut it again and tried to put the chocolate bar into his pocket. “Aw, come on now. Take the chocolate at least. As payment.” He wrestled with Gilbert, trying to push it into his pocket, and Gilbert resisted very strongly. With deft fingers, Antonio managed to pluck Gilbert’s wallet just before he was pushed away. He hid it behind the chocolate bar.

“I said enough!” Gilbert shouted. His gaze was fierce and warning. He looked like he was going to continue, so Antonio laughed to halt the tension.

“All right, all right. I get it,” he said, keeping the chocolate bar and wallet close to him. “I’m sorry. Forget it. Forget I said anything.” He waved his free hand.

Gilbert didn’t say anything more, and without Antonio near him, he opened the door and stormed out. His hard footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Antonio took some pleasure in hearing them fade away. 

Antonio whistled, and revealed the wallet behind the chocolate bar. He opened it up and peered inside. He smiled.

 

* * *

 

The forgery team was based in the recreation hall, but while they were not at work, Francis distracted the Germans by teaching cooking classes to the other prisoners. There was a large chalkboard displayed in the front—the entire room was set up a bit like a school classroom. Francis had written the recipe for ratatouille and was explaining it in _great_ detail. So much detail. Trying very hard to bore the German officers listening in. And it was definitely working.

“Now there are many ways in which you can cut the vegetables, you see. There is sliced—thin or thick. But there are also other shapes. Now,” he flipped the board over and began drawing. “Let me explain to you the benefits of cutting vegetables irregularly…”

The door to the room opened, and Francis spun around to see who it was. It took a moment, but then he cheered, “oh, Toni!” Antonio gave him a courteous wave as he found his usual seat. “You’ll find pen and paper at your desk. Feliciano has been taking notes for you. I went over gardening earlier.”

Antonio sat down and made a grand show of looking very studious. Feliciano passed him some notes.

A German officer, who’d been scoffing in the corner for about fifteen minutes, peered over Antonio’s shoulder and said, “are you prisoners really so bored to find this show interesting?”

Antonio mocked surprise. “Why yes! You should stick around. Maybe you’d learn something.”

The German rolled his eyes. “No thanks. I’d rather waste my time someplace else.” He gave another judgmental look around the room, and took his time exiting. Once he was gone, Francis’s speech faltered and he looked to the window. But they had to wait for Lovino’s go-ahead, so he kept talking and talking. The others obediently continuing to take notes.

And about five minutes later there was a tap on the window and Francis dropped his chalk on the board. He took a seat at one of the long tables, and the others were fast to lift a board up and retrieve the forgery work. Arthur was suddenly inside and looming over his shoulder.

Francis pulled the documents away from his face and passed them over. “Ah, Arthur. These are the permissions to cross the border,” he said smoothly and turned around with curious eyes. “Tell me which one’s the forgery.”

Arthur glanced at him briefly and made serious work of comparing the two slips of paper. After a moment, he waved the left. “This one.”

Francis smiled. “They both are.”

Matthew rounded their conversation and looked at the documents himself. “Oh, very good Francis! Don’t you think so, Arthur?”

Arthur gave a fast nod and handed the papers back. He was avoiding eye contact with Francis because it was obvious he was expecting praise.

But Francis knew this game so he moved onto the next subject: a problem with the plan. That was something Arthur would listen to. “So what’s holding us up now is the travel permit. We have no idea what they look like.”

Antonio interrupted their conversation at that just moment—though he’d been listening in for quite some time waiting for this moment. “There you are, Francis. I have just what you need,” he said and pulled a travel permit from Gilbert’s wallet and dropped it on the table. “And uh, a military identity card.” He dropped that too. “And…hmm,” he tilted his head trying to translate the German.

Matthew snatched it from his fingers and showed it to Arthur. “Arthur, this grants permission to be on Reich property!”

“Right,” Antonio replied and continued milling through the wallet. “And here’s a ticket to Oden. And this is what appears to be the commandant’s assignments for day and night of this week.” He smiled and dropped the wallet onto the table.

Francis was wide-eyed and staring obsessively over the documents on the table. Arthur and Matthew were still awing at the document they held in their hands.

Slowly, Arthur turned to him, and he couldn’t help but say, “excellent job, Carriedo. Really, _excellent._ ”

Antonio nodded his head. “Thank you. All in a day’s work.” He pointed to the wallet and added, “take good care of that.”

Matthew picked it up and blurted, “Toni, where did you get this?”

Antonio hesitated with his response, but decided on a smile. “It’s on a loan.” He gave a short wave to everyone at the table, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If some of you are reading my other ongoing fic "Disegno e Colore", just know that I'm gonna get back to it really soon! I just had to take a break before I delved into the last arc :')


	3. The Cooler King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!

1943

Germany

“Lovino?” Antonio prompted. They were in his room, but the only reason Lovino was there was because Antonio bribed him with coffee. Funny how well that trick works.

Lovino’s face was elated as he took a sip. “Hm?”

“I was wondering…” Antonio began slowly. “Where are you planning on escaping to?”

Lovino blinked and pulled away the coffee. “Huh?”

“After the escape—where are you going?”

“Oh,” Lovino put the cup down and brushed some hair away from his face. “Feli and I are going to Switzerland. We haven’t decided whether we’ll hike or take the train though.”

Antonio nodded. Most people were going to Switzerland, of course. It was the closest safe country. It wasn’t the easiest to get to with all of the patrols, but it was certainly the closest.

Lovino was waiting impatiently for Antonio to reply, but seeing how he went quiet at the table, Lovino blurted, _“and you?”_

Antonio laughed at the question. “Spain, of course,” he replied. “The resistance around here knows guides that can lead me there. Much safer than the train that way. I don’t know enough German or French to pass as a citizen.”

Lovino pressed his lips together and looked away. “Yeah, Feli and I are running into the same problem. Feli’s always been pretty good with languages - at least German - but me…” Lovino sighed. His cheeks were pink and his brows cross. “But we refuse to split up, so we might end up finding a way to hike to Switzerland.”

Antonio held his chin in his hand and looked at Lovino. He looked at him for a long time, until Lovino was _just about_ to snap, and then suggested a plan. “How about you and Feli come with me to Spain?”

“To Spain?” Lovino repeated dumbly, his eyes going wide. “How is that better than Switzerland?”

“It’s still neutral. Maybe it’s not as safe, but you’d have me there, so I can get you around Spain just fine. There might even be a way for us to get a flight or boat to America. Who knows?”

Lovino was a statue. He didn’t say a word for several moments, but he did continue to take sips of coffee. His dark eyes flickered many emotions: surprise (of course), confusion, suspicion (that one was insulting), flattery, curiosity, and temptation. He pursed his lips one last time, before raising his chin confidently. “I’ll think about it,” he declared.

Antonio’s smile faltered. Well, that was not the answer he expected.

Lovino drained the rest of his coffee, set it down hard on the table, and stood up. It didn’t take long for Antonio to realize Lovino was really just going to march out without another word, so it was up to him.

“Um,” he said, his hand outstretched automatically. Lovino turned around and glared at him, so Antonio retreated his hand and grinned. “Is there any way for me to convince you?”

“Bribe me,” Lovino said, not missing a beat.

“What?”

“Bribe me,” Lovino repeated. “That’s right up your alley, isn’t it? I like things and I like food, so figure it out.” He gave a rare smile to Antonio, and left the room.

The door shut, and Antonio bent over the table, hand in his curly hair, and laughed. Really laughed. He was still laughing when Francis came in, but it was hard to explain why. The war was giving him a strange sense of humor.

 

* * *

 

One thing Francis was incapable of letting Arthur live down was how he was in charge of approving the civilian outfits created for the escape. Francis refused to relent, not only because it was funny to imagine Arthur dictating fashion, but also because he was furious that it wasn’t him instead. Arthur tried to explain it to him over and over, that it was better if he did it because his taste was more ordinary and plain—if Francis had his way, everyone would be too sharply dressed, they’d be looked at everywhere.

However, the only way to placate Francis enough not to interfere with the tailor team was to promise that his outfits would be a mark above the rest. Arthur later pulled Feliciano to the side and warned more seriously that it better not be _too high_ of a mark. (No way in hell he’d have Francis caught after finally escaping for being too fashionable—the irony would be too much to bear.)

And Francis of course was too busy forging 250 people’s worth of documents to hold up much a fight, and for once a feud of theirs died almost painlessly. _Almost_ being the keyword.

So it was just Feliks and Feliciano with Arthur during the meeting. Feliks was hovering over the array of garments, while Feliciano had one splayed over his figure as display.

“Now, in order to get the right amount of outfits, Arthur. I recommend we work from service uniforms,” Feliciano said. The jacket he held in front of him was navy (like so many of their uniforms) and not yet tailored. “Now we can do double-breasted, single-breasted, and,” Feliciano pulled the jacket a little further down. “We can also make rather nice lounge suits.”

“We can do like, a lot of things with lapels,” Feliks prompted. He scurried over to Feliciano to adjust the model jacket, and fold over the material as example. “We can make them go deep—like that. Or high ones like that. Totally cool, right?”

Feliciano reached around him and grabbed some indigo material set on the table. “Here’s one we’re working on right now.”

Arthur leaned back and observed it carefully. “What about buttons?”

Feliks jumped and reached back at the jar behind them. “Here are some totally cool ones. Have a look.”

Feliciano let the basic jacket drop onto the table and rounded the room to grab another. “Here’s one that we finished, Arthur,” he called happily, and swung the jacket into Arthur’s arms. Feliciano grabbed another. “And here’s one we dyed with a bottle of blue ink.” Feliciano seemed with himself and giggled. “I think it turned out pretty nice!”

Arthur abandoned the garments for a moment and looked forlorn to the window. “Damn, the Germans would have a field day if they found this.”

But Feliciano wave him off. “Oh, that’s Lovino’s department.” He ran over to the other table and said, “now I’ve started working on the other materials. The blankets that everyone has, particularly their stripes—perfect! Can make so many things. I decided to make them into coats.” Felciano lifted the example up over his chest. “We have people working on these all working the compound.”

Feliks had shuffled over beside him, and when Arthur picked up the long piece of brown fabric he blurted, “oh, those we were going to make into like, battle dresses. But they’re kind of short, so we’re going to do some cool working man’s outfits.”

Arthur nodded his head and tossed the fabric down.

Feliks skipped over to the other pile of fabric and he smiled. “Oh, these were from those like, other pretty blankets with ticking,” he said. “We made them into cool waistcoats.” Feliks held up the sample over Arthur, and Arthur pulled it close to his chest and examined it.

“Ah, yes,” Arthur hummed. He was pleased. “And these are dyed, correct?”

“Of course!” Feliks exclaimed.

Feliciano had bounded over to a pile of brown fabric. “Oh, and Arthur, come have a look at this.” Arthur neared, and Feliciano continued. “So with this blanket material,” he pulled it up to demonstrate. “We scrape it down, until it’s very smooth, and then dye it with boot polish.” Feliciano’s smile was wide and proud. Arthur graced him with a nod.

“Oh my god, and the corduroys!” Feliks shouted, and he rushed over near Feliciano. He pulled the fabric up. “Antonio got this,” he said. “I wish we had more of it, because it’s like, so pretty, right?”

Arthur was admiring the fabric when the last two piles of pale blue and smooth gray caught his eye. He grabbed them roughly and inspected with a close eye. “Where in the hell did these come from? They look _pristine_.” Arthur couldn’t help but think how exalted Francis would be if he saw this haul.

“We got them from Antonio,” Feliciano replied.

“Well where the hell did _he_ get them from?” Arthur demanded. These were nice fabrics. Not just good: _nice._

Feliks and Feliciano exchanged a look. Feliks shrugged his shoulders and said, “well, we tried to ask him, but stopped us and said ‘Don’t ask’.”

God, well the enigma was certainly annoying, but with results like this, Arthur hardly had to care. This scrounger was leagues superior than the last. If he could continue finding materials like this, then perhaps sending 250 people on the streets won’t be as asinine as Arthur (occasionally) worried.

 

* * *

 

One day, after what seemed like ages, Alfred and Peter were released from the cooler. The two of them stepped out and were greeted with a clear blue sky. Alfred inhaled the fresh air with a triumphant grin--his spirit was so hard to squash. But Peter…even Alfred had to admit, Peter looked a little _too_ relieved. Like he truly believed he was going to be in there forever. Were his hands shaking?

Alfred clapped a hand to Peter’s back and shared a smile with him. Peter seemed to lighten up. And together they marched into the compound, ignoring the ogles of the rest of the prisoners.

They parted ways, and while Peter went to his hut, Alfred went to his. It took him some time to remember though, as he hadn’t actually spent a full night there yet. And it was kind of funny asking a German for directions to his own room. But it got him the information he needed, and Alfred scampered off to his hut.

The door to his room was open, and Alfred walked in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw that the room was not empty, and that it was Artie the Brit, and Mattie the Canadian sitting at his table, drinking what could only be tea. They both looked up, and, to hide his surprise, Alfred slapped a grin onto his face.

“Artie! Mattie! Is this a welcome home party? Because I’m pretty sure the cooler is more my home now,” Alfred jeered and laughed at his own joke.

Arthur had a strange way about him. He was tough—Alfred could tell that much. And it took one look at his face to know he’d been with the Gestapo. And it wasn’t just the scar that told him that. Alfred had a small run-in with them after his seventeenth escape, but it lasted maybe a few days and they released him. But Arthur…it was obvious he was with the Gestapo for quite a while. Those green eyes didn’t trust anyone. Matthew was definitely the closest, and maybe that French guy, but Arthur didn’t seem to let his guard down even around them.

One vice about Arthur though: he was too much of a thinker. It was plain as day when Alfred stared at him that that mind kept turning and turning, probably obsessing about every single thing he saw. Whereas Matthew seemed to be smoother, calmer, and it was up to him to speak first.

“Alfred,” Matthew began softly. “We were wondering if you might be—”

“Going out again?” Alfred interrupted preemptively. Matthew and Arthur gave short nods. “I am.”

“Oh,” Matthew breathed and he shared a look with Arthur. “When, um, when were you planning?”

“Seventeen days, on the seventh of July.”

“Dark of the moon,” Arthur stated, his eyes cast away.

Matthew bit his lip and failed at catching Arthur’s gaze. He looked back to Alfred. “We have to ask…um, is Peter going with you?”

Alfred’s shoulders rose an inch. “If he wants to.”

“It’s just,” Matthew paused. He seemed torn on what to say. “Well, Peter is very young. The youngest in the camp. And you must know that he’s pretty close to cracking, right?”

Alfred’s eyes fell to the ground, a little disheartened, and admittedly depressed. “Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. But Alfred didn’t like to stay sad for too long and tried to think of the solution. He crossed his arms and began tapping his foot. His head shot up and looked to Matthew. “You think it’d be better for him to go out in the tunnel, do ya?”

“Safer,” Arthur offered, without facing him.

Alfred hummed, trying to make sense of his thoughts. How did Artie do it, he wondered? It was obvious Arthur was putting a lot of effort into thinking about every little part. But Alfred wasn’t as good at multi-tasking. He couldn’t decide what to do about Peter. Even though, of course, Peter would end up making his own mind.

“Right,” Alfred finally muttered. He walked to the little counter and found the kettle of water. He poured himself a glass—no tea thank you.

Arthur turned around now, and he clenched his fist to try and manage his stress. “Alfred,” he began slowly. “Of course, there are a number of people who have escaped alone by the wire and done it well. Even gotten away.” He let the compliment sit for a moment. “However, there are also a considerable number of people in this camp trying to escape beside yourself.”

Alfred raised a brow. “I figured as much.” It’s not as if any prisoner in the camp was the type to sit on their hands and wait for the white flag. Of course there’d be other escapes. But the way Arthur and Matthew were looking at him…gosh, it was like they wanted something from him. But what the hell could that be? “All right, Artie,” Alfred laughed defensively. “I know something’s up. You’re pushin’ somethin’ on to me. I know you are. I can feel it.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “My name’s Arthur.”

Alfred smiled—Arthur was cute when he blushed. “All right, Arthur.”

“And your’re is Captain Jones, correct?”

Alfred chuckled easily. “Just call me Alfred.”    

Arthur glanced to him, brows staying low, and he nodded. “Right, well,” Arthur picked up his cup roughly, but only stared at it. “As I was saying, we have maps of Germany - general maps that is - in fact we have all the information for the escape routes out of Germany. But um,” Arthur turned to him, and his face was trying very hard to be persuasive. “What we do not have is, um…”

“Is a clear idea of what’s 500 yards outside those trees, right?” Alfred guessed.

Arthur appeared surprised, but slightly pleased that Alfred had said that. “Right,” he replied.

“We have tried every German in the camp with no results,” Matthew added tiredly.

Arthur, however, remained hard and steadfast. “We _must_ know the exact position of the local tower. We want to know when we hit the main roads. They must patrol them,” Arthur stated firmly. No innocence there.

Was it odd, that Alfred found this seriousness rather attractive?

“Where the local police stations are,” Arthur continued. “Where they’ve got their military road-blocks. And _most important of all,_ we have to know how to get from here to the railway station.” Arthur put his cup down and kept a firm gaze on Alfred, trying to make a point.

Oh, was this Brit a trip, or what? Alfred could have laughed. This guy was so thorough. Was he not a general? Hell, if Alfred knew. Because Artie certainly acted like one. Alfred often thought he was the most eager to escape, but with the way Arthur was acting, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was dead wrong. Arthur cared more about the escape than most people did, or maybe, ever should. He stared at Alfred as though he was asking him to die for him (and expected him to do it).

Now Alfred did laugh, because honestly—did Arthur really think Alfred would do anything he said? He was American after all. Not in the same army. And despite all of that, Alfred did his own thing. Always.

“Artie,” he said between giggles. His eyes sparkled, and he was still grinning. “You’re cute, but no. Absolutely not,” he affirmed. “Once I get through that wire, I’m not gonna be peeking over fences making maps for you guys. I’m gonna be so far away,” Alfred spread his arms dramatically, and his water dripped onto the floor. “By morning, I’m gonna be so far away, you’re not gonna know whether they were shooting me with howitzers.” He stared Arthur and Matthew down. Arthur was a mix of annoyed and…perhaps embarrassed. Matthew again, was more empathetic. “Okay?” Alfred asked.

“It’s most understandable,” Matthew reassured finally.

Arthur was still quiet, so Alfred glanced to him. It seemed like he was more pissed now.

Alfred scratched his head and tried to figure out a solution. “Um, I mean I’d like to help, but…you know?” That didn’t make matters any better.

Matthew and Arthur continued drinking their tea. Alfred finally began enjoying his glass of water, but he was so worked up, now he had to pace to do it in peace. “It’s an interesting idea though,” he blurted. “How many are ya taking out?”

Arthur set his cup down delicately, and without looking up, he replied, “250.”

Alfred almost dropped his cup. His eyes were blown wide, and he impulsively ran to their table and leaned over. He looked at Arthur incredulously. _“250?!”_ Arthur was obviously appalled by Alfred’s proximity, but he made no move to correct it, and tried to hold his own. He nodded again. “I can’t believe it,” Alfred laughed. “250 men just _walkin’ down the road_ , just like that. You guys are crazy. Crazier than I am! And that’s sayin’ somethin’. Honestly, you guys had better be locked up too.”

“Well,” Arthur placated smoothly. “There will be some on the road, some by train, others by boat, some cross-country.”

“They’ll have forged papers. Clothes, maps, compasses, rations…” Matthew added delicately.

Alfred was still staring at them with wide eyes, but now his smile was sarcastically ecstatic. “Has it occurred to you guys you’re gonna alert every German in the country? And that every guy with a pitchfork is gonna be out lookin’ for you? Why they’re gonna grab you so fast, it’ll make your head swim!”  

Arthur’s face was alive and eager to debate. Alfred was actually eager for it. _Just speak what’s on your mind already! I can’t hear your thoughts trapped in there!_

But Matthew, who seemed to be the moderator of the room, quickly intervened. “Yes, well Alfred,” he smiled. “Thank you, anyway. We’ll get out of your hair now.” He put down his teacup and removed himself from the chair. “I don’t know if you were told but Feliciano moved out of this room to live with Feliks. So Lovino is here now since he thought the room would be empty.” Matthew laughed shortly. “Good luck with that.”

Alfred waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I’ve had plenty of experience with those two. I know how they operate.”

Arthur and Matthew rose from their chairs and were on their way to walk out. Arthur looked very clearly despondent, and Matthew maybe more secretly so.

“Um, but if there’s anything I can do to help you guys out with the tunnel, just let me know!” Alfred added hurriedly. Arthur and Matthew stopped to stare at him, as though they were waiting. And it was like someone shook something loose in Alfred’s head, and everything finally fell into place. “ _Wait a second_ …You guys aren’t seriously suggesting that if I get through the wire and case everything out there, and don’t get picked up,” Alfred laughed in disbelief, “to turn myself in and get thrown back into the cooler for a couple of months, just so you can get the information you need?” Alfred didn’t know whether he wanted to hear denial or acceptance.

The fact that Arthur smiled, was a pleasant surprise. But it was a demanding, cruel smile. As if it said, _Of course you moron. Do everything I say. I want you to be my hound dog. My servant. Don’t talk back._

Instead, Arthur actually said, “Well, yes.” He pursed lips and decided to add, “we must ask very strange things in an operation as large as this one.”

“We’ll give you a good position in the tunnel!” Matthew offered enthusiastically, but he paled a little looking at Alfred’s sarcastic eyes.

“I wouldn’t do that for my own mother.” Alfred hoped they would find a better way at bribing him than that. They really didn’t know him at all, but he supposed there was no time to.

“Well,” Matthew said. “I don’t blame you.”

“Well, okay then,” Alfred replied.

“It’s completely understandable,” Arthur assured condescendingly.

Alfred’s grin was not as happy this time. _“Well, okay then.”_

Matthew shared a look with Arthur, and it was a secret language Alfred didn’t know the key to.

Eventually, Arthur spoke, sounding more obnoxiously snobbish than before. He lifted his chin, and said, “well thank you for your time, Alfred and good luck to you.” He turned on his heel and Matthew was close to his side.  

Alfred watched them walk away. He knew what he had to do, but he was becoming increasingly more concerned with what Arthur wanted him to do. Was that a bad thing?

 

* * *

 

 

Living with Francis meant living with all of his sophisticated quirks. It reminded Antonio again and again, that Francis was less of a soldier, and maybe the most civilian of all the prisoners. Because Francis insisted on nice cooking, decent gardening, and pleasant pastimes. He’d very recently convinced Antonio to learn chess after he acquired a set from an unknown source.

“Check,” Antonio said.

Francis didn’t bat an eyelash, and continued staring at the board closely and deliberately. A silence fell between them, but was interrupted by a violent burst through the door.

“Antonio,” Gilbert called before he was even inside. His voice was frantic. “You gotta help me, I think I lost my—” Gilbert stopped at once when he spotted another person in the room.

Antonio glanced up casually from the chessboard. “Oh, don’t worry. Francis is  a friend.”

Gilbert analyzed Francis in one glance: letting his eyes flit from shoes to hair. He never missed a thing. Gilbert stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back, looking official. He addressed Antonio with a firm gaze, “Antonio, I seem to have lost my wallet. It must be in this room when I saw you last.”

“Oh, damn,” Antonio shook his head. Francis moved a piece, and he followed suit. Then he leaned back in his chair and grinned, “well, I told you we were friends, right? I’ll find them. Don’t you worry.”

Gilbert’s shoulders fell in relief, and he managed a smile. “Oh, thank you,” he breathed. Then he excitedly wandered about the room, pulling up covers and looking into cabinets.

“Gilbert,” Antonio called lightly. Gilbert turned to him. “Not now—It might seem a bit peculiar if you and I were probing around at this time of night.” Antonio raised his brows and gave a suggestive look, to make a point.

Gilbert’s hands fell to his sides, and he took stiff steps back. “Oh, I see.”

Antonio stood up from his chair and languidly walked over to Gilbert. He rested his elbow on his shoulder. “Look,” Antonio smiled, and his eyes sparkled. “I’ll handle it. I promise you I’ll find it, if I have to tear this room apart.” He gave him a swift pat on the back, and returned to his chair.

Gilbert spent several moments watching them, and Antonio was able to admit that he felt a tad bit nervous--it was always hard to tell how much Gilbert knew and didn’t know. Eventually, however, he chuckled and said, “well, thanks Spaniard. If you ever need someone to get you out of the cooler, just let me know. I owe you one.” Gilbert turned to the door, ready to leave.

“Ah, actually Gilbert,” Antonio stopped him. “There is something you can do for me.”

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, and a light dawned on them. “Oh?”

 _Good,_ Antonio thought. Gilbert was catching on now.

“I have one small favor,” he continued easily. “A camera. Want to take some snapshots, you know? For keepsake?” he flashed a debonair smile, and the next second it was gone. “Thirty-five millimeter, 2.8 lense, and a plane shutter.”

For the first time that conversation, Francis looked up from the chessboard, but only to Antonio. “ _Focal_ plane shutter.”

Gilbert glanced from Francis to Antonio: a mix of confused, discerning, worry, and amusement.

“Gilbert,” Antonio said, and gave a serious look. “That’s a _focal_ plane shutter. Let me know when you have it.”

Gilbert’s brows went up and down, and his lips stayed pressed so tightly it was difficult to tell what emotion he was fighting. After a tense moment, he marched out the door without slam, leaving Antonio and Francis to their chess.

Antonio moved a piece. “He’s a crazy, mixed up kid, that Gilbert. But I like him.”

Francis blinked, and a small smirk crept across his face as he made his turn. “Checkmate.” 

Antonio’s eyes went wide, before he laughed. Francis was too adept at getting to him when he was unawares. But that was why he was so interesting after all.

 

* * *

 

Tunnel Tom was progressing beautifully. Berwald and Tino were well into the earth now. Already, the entrance of the tunnel was infrastructured with wood, and adorned with lanterns—helping them work. Right now, Tino was deep in the tunnel digging (he and Berwald took turns), only pausing when his wooden crates of dirt had reached his limit: then he’d tap the railing they’d constructed with his shovel, and the men on the other side would pull the wagon of boxes down by the rope. Berwald, of course, was one of them.

Arthur descended into the tunnel while Berwald was tugging the wagon out. He wasted no time with formalities, and got straight to the point as he crawled on his suit. “How’s it coming, Berwald?”

“No good,” Berwald said roughly, setting the crates aside aside to empty it. He gave Arthur a grave look. “Today, _three_ times…” He stopped when he heard earth fall, and his heart stopped too. Tino.

Without another word, he lunged onto the wagon and pushed himself along the railing, plunging deeper into the tunnel. When he found Tino’s feet, he grabbed them and pulled roughly to loosen him from the avalanche of dirt. Eventually, Tino fell into his arms coughing and wheezing.

His voice was strained when he pulled Tino’s face close and demanded, “You all right?”

Tino’s face was covered in dirt but he managed a terse nod.

Berwald yelled over his shoulder, “PULL!”

At once, Arthur and the other men present grabbed the rope and tugged it backwards, pulling Berwald and Tino on the wagon. They eventually reached the entrance, and Arthur was fast to pull Tino off, just as Berwald kicked the wagon aside and stood as far as he could manage over them, watching in concern as Arthur brushed the dirt from his mouth and forced a canteen of water down his throat.

Tino coughed, and Berwald hovered tense and helpless beside him. After some time, Tino turned to Arthur, and breathed, “you’re going to have to shore this whole tunnel, Arthur. All 335 feet of it.”

Knowing Tino was sound, Berwald gained some strength again and turned stone. He gave a stern look and said, “now, _four times_ today!” His eyes were venomous green. “This way we never get through. We _must have more wood.”_

“That’s a,” Tino coughed breathily, “a lot of timber, Arthur.” He seemed to be acclimating again, and was able to turn his head. “Can you get it?”

Arthur was still and ice beside them, thinking, thinking. He had to make a promise. He had to find a way. His gaze to the both of them was resolute. “We’ll get it,” he said. “We have to get it.” His voice was more confident and he matched Berwald’s glare particularly. “We’ll get Carriedo on it. And if he has anyone he recommends, them too. We’ll get more timber, don’t you worry.”

You could say a lot of things about Arthur Kirland/ ‘Big X’, but one thing no one could ever manage is he’s ‘lazy’, or ‘good-for-nothing’. Because in fact, when Arthur wanted something, it came true like magic: or more reasonably, like the force of his willpower commanded him.

The very next day, Arthur set Lovino to work on distractions - which once again meant leading a choir of Christmas carols (damn it all) - as Antonio, Francis and the rest of the team stole extra wood from under the bunk beds, from the rafters, and when convenient, from the walls too. Alfred was so eager to help in someway, Antonio put him to work too; and boy, for an American was he thorough. He about rounded all of the unoccupied and occupied bunk beds, lifting any planks he thought… “oh, well they won’t miss that.”

Alfred’s last stop was Feliks and Feliciano’s room - obvious by the aroma and decor, mind you - and he had already lifted a good twenty-plus planks from various rooms. He hesitated at Feliciano’s top bunk, once, twice, then lifted another plank. (Feliciano was light, right?) And carefully, oh-so carefully, Alfred began the process of carrying the full stack of wood against his chest. His legs were wide and he took slow frog steps towards the door. As he walked, Feliciano skipped by.

“Hi Alfred! How are you doing? You look tired. You should take a nap! That’s what I’m going to do!” he sing-songed, and before Alfred could manage a clear warning behind the wood, Feliciano had already climbed the ladder and flopped onto the top bunk. It fell hard to the second bunk, and Feliciano lay flabbergasted amongst the mess. He turned wide-eyed, wobbly, and hanging on the bottom bunk, to Alfred.

Antonio bowed with his bouquet of wood. “Sorry, man.” And kept walking.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred had been thinking about Arthur on and off since he had gotten out of the cooler. And by on and off, that meant on and, when he was asleep, _sometimes_ on. Alfred didn’t even know much about him! But Arthur was intense and intriguing, and against all better judgment, Alfred wanted to help him as best he could. Of course, breaking out 250 people wasn’t a walk in the park? Shouldn’t Arthur need Alfred’s help? Well, Alfred gave it as much as he could, but he’d be damned if he received any sort of emotional compensation. Arthur was a statue. A marble impersonation of what a captain or general should be like.

Well, if that didn’t tick Alfred the wrong way. So one day, after collecting another enormous pile of wood, he stomped down to Arthur’s room, didn’t knock (because why would he think of that?), and roughly pushed the door open.

Oh.

_Oooh._

Well, Alfred suspected/predicted a great many things delving into Arthur’s room alone and unexpected. But this was not one of them.

Alfred swung open the door to see Arthur, standing and being pressed against the frame of the bunkbed, kissing Francis. Well, to pat Alfred’s ego, it seemed like Francis was doing most of the kissing. But when Alfred’s entrance finally reverberated to the two of them, only Arthur had the decency to look embarrassed. Actually, he was more than embarrassed, his face was red and mortified. Alfred almost felt guilty.

He was almost guilty enough to leave on that look alone, but then Francis turned around, and his eyes were malicious and _oh_. How was Alfred supposed to live that down? No matter how shocked and silent he was.

“Why, Alfred dearest,” Francis purred and he sacheted forward. He cornered Alfred against the door, resting his hand beside Alfred’s face, and his eyes were the darkest blue. “Do you knock in America?”

Alfred’s eyes were wide. They flicked between Francis and Arthur.

“Francis please,” Arthur called. He was adjusting his shirt, and his face was still red.

“What is it? I’m just asking,” Francis replied smoothly, and his eyes stayed on Alfred. “You seem very shocked. What do we have to do to keep you quiet, hm?” His fingers brushed some hair away from Alfred’s brows. “There’s nothing I despise more than a tattletale.”

Arthur grabbed Francis’s hand roughly, and forced it backwards. “Francis,” he commanded. “Back off.”

Francis’s eyes were narrowed like he was trying to discern something, or see more clearly. “I’m just talking to him. Why are you getting so worked up?”

“You’re scaring him.”

“Oh, and do you think you’re a friendlier face?”

Arthur ignored him, and continued pushing Francis to the side. He looked to Alfred a little warily, his eyes struggling to keep contact. “Um, Alfred,” Arthur coughed. “I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this, all right?”

“Oh my god,” Alfred breathed.

“I know it must be a shock to you. But you have to understand that not all men are attracted to women, and it might sound strange, but men can be attracted to other men and—”

“Oh my god,” Alfred repeated, and his eyes focused on Arthur--still wide and blue. “I can’t believe I missed my chance.”

Arthur was so surprised he actually took a step back. “What was that?”

Alfred shook his head and pushed hair away from his forehead. “Shit. I can’t believe it,” he mumbled. “I just can’t believe it.” Then he tossed his head back and sighed, and without another word, left the room, and closed the door quietly behind himself.

Arthur was stunned, and stood motionless in front of the door. Eventually, he said, “well, what the hell was that?”

Francis had settled on a chair and was looking out the window. “Hm, I think you may have been just confessed to. How does it feel?”

“Confessed to?” Arthur shouted indignantly. “Is that what you call that inscrutable muttering? For god’s sake Francis, that man is the textbook cover of straight American playboy.”

“That’s a high compliment. He seemed rather silly to me,” Francis quipped, and he pulled out a cigarette sullenly.

Arthur crossed his arms and glared. “You’re sulking.”

Francis waved his unlit cigarette and flashed a smile. “I’m not sulking. I’m just talking.”

“You’re always talking. But your eyes are doing that faraway thing,” Arthur waved his hands in front of his face, “I don’t like it.” Francis just shrugged his shoulders. “Look—even if that kid thinks he likes me, I’m sure it’ll pass. It always does. He’s probably confused being in here. Being in the cooler for however long.”

Francis breathed a puff of fresh smoke and met his stare. He rolled his eyes and turned away. “Whatever you say, darling.”

Arthur’s hands kneaded at the fabric of his shirt. “That’s right.”

He tried to forget the American, the strong figure, the bright eyes, and the energetic aura. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. The plan was what mattered. The escape was what mattered. Why did Francis always have to focus on such ridiculous, meaningless things at a time like this? Damn it all.

 

* * *

 

Francis was leading the forgery team at work in the recreation hall when Antonio glided through. He saw Francis hunched close over papers with a magnifying glass, and he took the liberty of pulling a seat beside him. Francis heard the noise and lifted his head up.

Antonio retrieved something from his pocket and set it on the table. “A present from our friend, Gilbert,” he said. “I hope it’s all in order.”

Francis picked up the camera and held it close to his face: a slow smile spread across his lips. “Oh, how wonderful,” he murmured. “How very beautiful. This should do very nicely.”

Antonio watched him tinker with the camera and he felt satisfied with himself. There was a loud echo above, and he turned to the ceiling.

Francis barely looked over the camera. “Oh, that’s Tino’s men,” he reassured easily. “He requested to dispose of some dirt in our attic.”

Antonio raised his brows. _I guess they were utilizing everything now,_ he thought. Arthur really had no limits.

He slapped his hand on the desk and lifted himself off again. “Well, I hope this helps. I’ll see you later,” he said, offering a short wave to Francis.

Francis was still admiring the camera very close to his face. “Of course, my dear. And send my thanks to dear Gilbert.”

Antonio laughed. Oh, if only that were a possibility.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside tunnel Tom, Berwald had reached the end of where he and Tino had carved. He planted the end of a string into the earth, making sure it was secured firmly and tied by a nail. Then in labored breaths, he crawled on top of the wagon set onto the railing. He glanced over his shoulder one last time to make sure the end of the string was safe, then proceeded to push himself along the railing, letting the ball of string unfurl as he went. He was sweating, and wearily uncomfortable, but he kept going. Fortunately, the tunnel was lit by candles as they worked. It wasn’t complete darkness.

He eventually reached the entrance of the tunnel and Eduard was there waiting for him. Without a word, Eduard snatched the ball of string from Berwald’s grasp and held it close to his chest, pulling the string taut along the tunnel. The string had been measured off in calculations, and Eduard took note of that in his small book. He was trying to calculate the distance as best he could.

The next morning, Matthew discussed the results with Arthur and Francis outside in the compound.

“Tom has reached just beyond the pile of wood, Arthur. Still in the compound,” he gestured to the pile outside the fence, but still within the perimeter of Luftwaffe territory.

“Tunnel Harry, of course, isn’t as far as that,” Francis replied, brushing long hairs from his face.

“How much further to the trees?” Arthur demanded, looking to Matthew.

Matthew hesitated, then replied, “about fifty feet, Eduard says.”

Arthur nodded his head and clasped his hands behind his back. “Dark of the moon is the seventh?”

“Eighth and ninth,” Francis added.

“And a day earlier in August,” Matthew reminded.

Arthur bit his lip and began pacing near the fence, but not far from Francis and Matthew. He was deep in thought. Contemplation on what to do next. He paced back and forth between the group and the warning wire of the compound. As he was distracted by the plan, Matthew and Francis were caught off-guard by Alfred and the Vargas brothers.

Most prisoners were at work gardening now, and Alfred was one pushing a full wheelbarrow of potatoes across the compound. He met eyes with Francis and Matthew (the ones looking at him), and smiled. “Morning guys.” He kept strolling with his wheelbarrow, and Lovino and Feliciano followed him a few minutes later with their own wheelbarrows

“Why is he piling up all of the potatoes in the compound?” Francis complained dramatically. “He knows that we’re sharing the gardens, right? That it’s not all for their taking?”

“I’ve been working on that,” Matthew said: he sounded resigned. “But I can’t seem to find out.” He tossed his head over his shoulder and watched the Americans fade away. “Alfred and the Vargas brothers lock themselves in their room every night. Sometimes Lovino’s in there with him, and other times he’s on guard outside.”

Arthur had finally returned from his stewing near the wire and approached Francis and Matthew very confidently. “Matthew, we’re going to close down tunnels Dick and Harry: seal them off. And we’ll pour all of our resources into Tom, and press right on into the trees.”

Matthew nodded. “All right, Arthur. Will do,” he promised. Francis sighed beside him, and Arthur turned his gaze fervently to the trees. 

Matthew bit his lip. Tom had better pull through for them. He didn’t know much more he could take of this tension. Among Francis and Arthur, and everyone else for that matter.

 

* * *

 

Late at night, Feliciano stumbled across the hallway lugging a sack of potatoes. His steps were short and uncoordinated, but eventually he reached what was his old room, and awkwardly banged his shoulder on the door. Alfred was the one to open, and he swiftly pulled Feliciano in at the same time he threw the sack over his shoulder, relieving Feliciano of the burden.

“Oh, thank you, Alfred,” Feliciano laughed and rubbed his shoulder. “Potatoes are so heavy, you know?” He watched Alfred throw the potatoes into the large barrels. Meanwhile Lovino was concentrated over distilling the older patch of potatoes. He cranked hard on the contraption, turning it round and round. Alfred resumed help, and Feliciano watched curiously. They all stopped when they heard liquid drip. The three of them crept to the sound, and Alfred was the first to stick his hand under the drip.

He pulled the drop onto his tongue, and his eyes boggled. “Wow.”

Lovino scoffed and did the same. He tasted the liquid, and managed a weaker, “wow.”

Alfred and Lovino looked to Feliciano now, and he puffed up confidently to take the next sip. He coughed, and stuttered a weak, _“wow.”_

Lovino and Alfred went back to work, distilling the potatoes continuously, all through the night—as they had done for days. Eventually, and by eventually it was a _good time later_ , they managed to procure enough liquid to fill a large multi-liter canister donated so kindly by Antonio.

Now, they took verified real sips poured into a tin cup. Alfred was the first.

“Wow,” he breathed, and a grin spread across his lips. He turned to Lovino and Feliciano excitedly.

Lovino grabbed the tin cup from his hand and gulped down a sip. He almost barfed, but fortunately just coughed. “Wow.”

Lovino passed the cup to Feliciano, who glanced between the two of them cautiously, but refusing to dwindle under the pressure. He forced a gulp down and his amber eyes went wide: _“W-wow.”_  

Alfred grinned triumphantly and Lovino took that as his cue to cork the bottle up. Seemed like their work was going _too_ well.

 

* * *

 

Francis was leaning wistfully outside his bedroom window one morning when he heard a voice that sounded very familiar. And the voice was not loud really, but it was distinctly brash and German: just like the one named Gilbert who secured his camera some time ago.

So Francis leaned a little further out and tapped his cigarette outside. He couldn’t quite make out anybody, but he definitely heard a voice. Was it behind him?

_“Come on, now Gilbird. You gotta fly away at some point. Don’t ya want to be free?”_

Francis understood more of German now that he was preparing for his escape, but he still felt as though he got something wrong in his translation. Who was Gilbert talking to?

“Ah, Gilbert darling,” Francis called delicately. He hadn’t yet deciphered where Gilbert was hiding. “Is something the matter?” There was a long enough silence where Francis thought perhaps Gilbert all but disappeared, but then there was a tap on his shoulder and Francis turned his head to find Gilbert’s bright, red eyes staring deeply into his.

“Francis, right?” Gilbert confirmed. “Antonio’s friend?”

Francis’s lashes fluttered and he smiled. “The one and only.”

From such close proximity, Francis could detect a slight smirk on Gilbert’s features, and then he was talking fast. “Okay, look. I did you guys a favor, so now you have to do me one,” he ordered, sounding much more like the German officer than Gilbert. But then his voice turned meek and he added, “see, I have this bird that I found…”

“A bird!” Francis laughed ecstatically, almost letting his cigarette drop. He didn’t notice Gilbert’s glare and continued, “why on earth do you have a bird?”

“Well, I found it, and I wasn’t about to let it die in the compound, all right,” Gilbert defended gruffly. He pulled open the black lapels of his uniform jacket and revealed a small puff.

“Is that a pigeon?”

“No, it’s not a pigeon! It’s a collared dove,” Gilbert defended swiftly, and the bird disappeared in his jacket, seeming shy again. He sighed. “I found her sitting around the compound some time ago, and I don’t know. She wouldn’t move! So I put her in my jacket, and now she refuses to leave!”

Francis was fighting back quite a lot of amused laughter now. “How do you know the difference between a pigeon and a dove?”

“I was a boy scout, okay!” Gilbert declared. “And I may have dabbled in bird watching for a time…” He trailed off, seemingly much more annoyed. “Look—you try to spend your days trapped in this barren wasteland with nothing to do. It sucks, man. I’m bored as hell. How was I supposed to let this bird die?”

 _Oh, how Gilbert was amusing_. Did he not even realize what he said? Francis assumed not. Because it was all the more humorous that way. Perhaps Antonio was right in his impression of him—Gilbert was bored. Bored enough to relinquish his duties as a German officer and galavant the compound in search of lonesome birds at least. That made Francis smile. He understood the flaws of humanity.

“Well, well, Gilbert. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for the loss of a life. How can I be of service?”

“Do you know how to talk to birds?” Gilbert blurted.

Francis blinked, then chuckled. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “But I do have quite a lot of fruit and vegetables from the garden. Could that be of help?”

Gilbert grinned ecstatically and exclaimed, “oh hell yeah! Grab some of it, will ya? I hate stealing from the gardens. The other officers give me such dirty looks. This makes it so much easier.”

Francis decided to ignore that comment - he had been suspecting that someone had been stealing from their gardens for a while - but he didn’t want to linger on it. Francis retrieved some tomatoes and lettuce, and passed it to Gilbert’s ready hands.

“Thanks so much, Frenchie,” he replied, and stuffed into the other pocket of his shirt. “Hopefully this’ll help. Or else…well, man maybe the bird has just attached to me then.”

“There are worst things, no?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gilbert agreed, glancing once more at Gilbird before he disappeared in his jacket. His red eyes returned to Francis looking openly. After some time, his brows lowered and he began to say something stern, then stopped himself. He smiled again and began a sentence a little less stern. “You know, you guys are pretty lax for prisoners of war.”

Francis smirked. “Oh, should we be more more uptight like you Germans?”

“Well,” Gilbert smiled, and it was warning. “You should know that Germans are never lax. Even if you want to believe it. So just keep that in mind.”

Francis ruminated on the words, and replied cautiously. “Well, okay then." 

Gilbert gave a half-wave and an awkward smile, before walking off in another direction. Was Francis supposed to make something of that sentence, or just leave it as another annoying German dictation? He didn’t know, and he really didn’t want to care. He decided to finish his cigarette and talk about it with Antonio later.

 

* * *

 

One early dawn, Alfred strode across the compound—it was even earlier than the morning German officers patrolled. He strolled to a garbage can he and Lovino had set up and placed a small explosive inside. Swiftly he closed the lid and stepped to the left, plugging his ears. The lid of the garbage can flew forward a few feet with a bang and Alfred stood proudly beside it.

Feliciano was on duty to raise the torn and weary American flag on the small pole, and he did it with a brilliant smile. A few prisoners had crept out of their cabins from the noise, yearning to know what the commotion was about. Feliciano and Alfred took their stances near Lovino and the bottles of liquor. Each of them took a few swigs. Then as people watched, Alfred pulled on a black vest and colonial hat the same time Feliciano tied a bandana around his head and grabbed an American flag tied to a stick: Lovino stayed silent and reluctantly participant. He delicately picked up the drum as Alfred grabbed the flute.

Alfred practiced the flute once, and it was harsh. Everyone on the compound gave him a look.

“About face,” Lovino called, and Feliciano and Alfred followed suit. The three Americans formed a small horizontal line and marched across the compound, playing the tune of “Yankee Doodle Went to Town”. As they marched, more and more prisoners rushed out in cheers to meet them, curious to know the commotion. They joined the Americans’ walk until it finally reached the hut of Big X.

Matthew was the first to peek outside, tugging on his jacket. Arthur swiftly followed looking surprisingly disheveled.

“What’s going on?” Matthew asked in confusion, his eyes looking very sleepy.

“Oh my god,” Arthur murmured. “It’s the fourth of July, isn’t it?”

Alfred and the Vargas brothers approached their doorstep and dropped their instruments. Alfred grinned. “Brits and Canadians, you’re welcome to the wash-deck for drinks this morning.”

“A little present from the colonials,” Feliciano added chipperly.

“Down the British!” Alfred cheered, he sounded tipsy already—what was he drinking?

Arthur rolled his eyes, but his lips turned up nonetheless. “Well, thank you for the invitation.”

“We can drink to Tom!” Feliciano exclaimed gleefully.

“And to getting home,” Alfred added, making a great effort at sincerity. And it seemed genuine. It’s not as though Alfred was capable of feigning much else.

“Very well,” Arthur nodded. His heart softened a bit, and he tried to ignore the fact it was American earnestness that did it. “We accept.”

Alfred’s eyes sparkled happily. “Good,” he said, and straightened to soldier’s attention. “Follow us,” he said. “Down the British!”

“About face!” Feliciano called, and the three of them twirled on their heels until they faced the opposite direction. They began marching and more crowds of men followed them to the wash-deck, cheering and chanting. At the wash-deck, Alfred and the Vargas brothers swiftly abandoned their trinkets and set to work on grabbing the large bottles of moonshine and holding them steadily. A line formed and they began pouring cups of drinks to the prisoners. It was loud, happy, drunk, and chaotic—as any fourth of July should be.

The German officers came running with guns to the commotion, but quietly put them away under Gilbert’s orders once seeing the Americans passing out drinks. They’d wait for their moment.

“That explains what happened to the potatoes!” exclaimed Matthew and he led the way of Brits to the long line.

“No harm in closing Tom for one day, right Arthur?” Tino offered meekly, and Berwald was right at his side reinforcing his words in stony silence.

Arthur looked from them to the Americans, and a grin betrayed his face. “I suppose it’ll do all of us some good to catch a break,” he said diplomatically. “There are only fourteen feet left to go. We can draw out the whole bloody camp.”

Matthew laughed. “I think that calls for a drink!” And he skipped the space in the line.

Alfred, Lovino and Feliciano were yelling commands as each of them poured glasses.

“Moonshine. American moonshine!”

“Drink it up!”

“Drink it all!”

“Keep it moving!”

“No taxation without representation.”

“Hello, Feliks! Don’t spill any of that.”

“Down the British!”

“There you go! Keep it moving, keep it moving.”

“Don’t get any on your clothes.”

Antonio caught up to Francis in line and grinned. “Before your morning tea?” he jeered.

Francis peered over his shoulder delicately. “Well, why not? How long has it been since I had any sort of alcohol.”

“No smoking while you’re drinking!” Alfred bellowed, and kept pouring. Feliciano poured moonshine in his mouth and he coughed, but kept going. “Don’t get it on your clothes, everyone.”

The prisoners, all with full tin cups dispersed onto the compound and chatted merrily. Some laughing hysterically.

“Get good and trashed my friend,” Alfred ordered happily, swigging more moonshine down his throat. Lovino had downed an unknown amount, but stayed quiet and diligent at pouring: only Alfred and Feliciano could tell how much he had drunk. Feliciano was certainly tipsy by the way he was spilling the pours. But it was all in good fun.

Matthew raised his glass to Arthur and smiled. “Let’s drink to Tom.”

He and Arthur chugged down their glasses, and at once both of them coughed.

Arthur leaned forward, hand grasping his chest. “Dear god,” he wheezed. “In the three years, seven months, and approximately two months I’ve been in prison, that’s the most extraordinary stuff I’ve ever tasted.” His eyes were wide and green.

Matthew was in about the same state. “It’s shattering,” he managed softly.

“Quite right,” Arthur agreed.

But surprisingly, Matthew licked his lips and his eyes flicked back to the wash-deck. “But, um,” he began. “With your permission sir, I think I’d like to go in for a second round.”

Arthur gave him an aghast look that meant: _Why the hell are you conferring to me about second courses_ , but fortunately Matthew understood the subcontext and scurried off. Matthew’s loyalty was a treasure, but it had it’s small annoyances at times like this.

Antonio had finally grabbed his cup of moonshine by a very obviously drunk Lovino—who had poured more liquor outside the cup than in, but Antonio kept his mouth closed. He didn’t think he was welcome to interrupt the American festivities, and as quick to sought out Francis’s familiar company. Francis was poised on a bench, sipping his own tin cup carefully.

Antonio grinned wide and sat down beside him. “So, what do you think?” he asked. (Antonio had actually had three cups now. Just to see Lovino. So he may be perhaps, a _tiny_ bit tipsy.)

Francis gave a cursory purse of the lips and murmured, “well, it isn’t Napoleon brandy, that’s for sure.”

Antonio burst into laughter, because what the hell did Francis expect in a prison? Oh, gosh. _Oh, god._ Francis. He was so unusual. Poor him.

The line of needy prisoners had eventually died down to needing only one American on stand-by, so Alfred took his leave to bee-line around the compound in search of Artie the Brit. It took him, maybe about five minutes of eager pestering, and eventually he found his path to Arthur and tried his very best to stoll as chivalrously as possible. (American hero, American hero. That was his mantra.)

“How do you like it, sir?” Alfred asked.

Arthur pulled the tin cup away from his face and about glared at it. “W-well, it’s, um,” Arthur trailed off, surprisingly at a lack for words. He decided to channel the American insight. “Uh, to the colonies?”

“To independence,” Alfred cheered and clinked their glasses with a broad smile. He looked at Arthur closely, expectantly, and Arthur fidgeted under the gaze.

“H-how are you getting along without us, Captain Jones. All right I hope?”

“You can call me Alfred, you know,” he laughed easily. “But I think we’re getting along okay. No problems yet.”

Arthur fidgeted under the gaze, and was unsure of how to respond. How was that so? He always knew how to respond. But the silence lasted, and eventually, sadly, Alfred took his leave with a last smile. Arthur felt guilty.

The Germans weren’t oblivious, nor were they distracted by the impulsive acts of the Americans. Actually, they took it as an opportunity for surprise inspections. And while the entire compound was out and drinking, they took their turn inspecting the inside of the  huts, one by one.

Ludwig was leading the investigation of course, but it was Gilbert that was carrying it out. They reached hut 105 and Gilbert was the only one left in the room. He knew the prisoners were planning something—he just didn’t know what. So he remained in the hut while the others scattered.

Outside, Berwald had noticed the German presence and was lingering near. Tino caught his nerves and hovered beside him, a little helpless, but just as secretly nervous. They didn’t say anything, but Tino pushed the cup of moonshine into Berwald’s hand and encouraged him to drink.

Berwald was stubborn, and even with a cup of moonshine in his hand, he paced to where Arthur was sitting, and warned, “Big X, there are Germans in hut 105.”

“Who?”

“Gilbert Bielschmidt.”

Arthur’s lips hovered over his cup, but his eyes remained determined, and he took another sip. “Is that so?” he murmured. “Well, we’ll have to ignore it. If we make a fuss, they’ll know that hut is important to us. Just keep to yourselves, boys…” He said it knowing how futile it was. Not only were the tunnel kings on arm, but Arthur was as well: and that was the least merry trio to have on anxious standby.

But still, Arthur tried to ease their nerves somewhat. “Come on, Berwald. They’ve searched that hut a hundred times,” he said and raised his cup. “To home.” He took the sip much more anxiously than he wanted. The alcohol burned its way down his throat.

Fortunately, Matthew was keeping Peter occupied. Talking of stories of Britain and what they’ll do once they’re home.

“I’m so glad you joined the tunnel with us, Peter,” Matthew said happily (he was on his… unclear cup of moonshine. But Matthew’s job was stressful, so he permitted the drunkenness for this day).

Peter beamed. “I’m so excited! We’re soon going to be home!” He raised his cup. “To Tom!”

Matthew clinked glasses and laughed before they drank to their toast. He laughed afterwards too.

Inside hut 105, Gilbert retreated from the sight of merry-making out the window and turned back to the bedroom. He had been heating a kettle of water above the furnace and was waiting for it to boil. Gilbert heard its whistle and grabbed the kettle carefully, but his thoughts were still distracted by the prisoners and their festivities, and Gilbert clumsily spilled hot water onto his hand. He let the cup drop and cursed under his breath. Without thinking, he brought his hand to his mouth to lick it, but stopped when he heard the oddest sound. The water passed over the tile beneath the furnace, but it didn’t sound like a normal drop. It sounded like it _echoed._

Gilbert crouched over the tile and ran his fingers over it. Then he grasped the kettle and poured water over the tile again, watching carefully, and listening closely, as the water passed through the cracks in the tiles and fell downwards. There was a long pause before the water finally crashed. Gilbert clenched his eyes shut in frustration, and brusquely brought himself up from the floor. He called out to the other Germans.

They came in hurry and Gilbert demonstrated his discovery. Then at once, one German was plucking the suspicious wood beneath the bunks at the same time Gilbert and the other guard stood up to help. Together they lifted the furnace away by the planks and stood over the bare tile square. One German ran his fingers over it, and Gilbert more carefully peeled away a loose tile, and lifted it up by a knife. They peered inside and found a tunnel. At once whistles bellowed across the compound.

All of the commotion outside seized, and the prisoners went quiet. Anyone involved in the tunnel was looking to hut 105 already, and once the whistle was blown their tipsy high was crestfallen.

Matthew dropped his cup to the floor and murmured, “oh my god, they found Tom.” Then left Peter’s side and ran to the hut. Peter laid behind, wide-eyed, and with shaking hands. _Not again._

More German guards, armed with guns rushed through the compound, surrounding hut 105 and disrupting the festivities. Most of the prisoners eyed them in disdain. Other in disappointment, and some in worry.

Antonio cursed and tossed his cup to the side. Francis cast his head down wearily.

The Americans stood at the wash-deck motionless, but Lovino kept chugging moonshine back to dull the pain.

Only Peter moved. And he moved without any thought, just on instinct, towards the fence. His eyes were far away and all he could see was Britain. Going home. Leaving this place. And being free. His cup of moonshine dropped to his side and he kept walking. Freedom was so near, he could feel it. So he started running desperately, childishly, without concern or thought, he went. And suddenly he felt the wire beneath his fingers and _oh God_ , he was so close! He was climbing higher and higher, and he was reaching. Reaching—he could almost taste freedom. Yet…

In actuality, Peter was stuck on the fence like a bug on a web, and was suddenly victim to the guards of the tower pointed their guns onto him. Alfred noticed what was going on and began sprinting at full speed.

“NO! Wait! Stop!” he yelled.

But it didn’t help anything. The Germans shot, and without the ability to move higher or lower, Peter was bombarded with a slew of gunshots—to his legs and chest. Without any power left in him, Peter eventually fell motionless and weak to the floor.

Alfred had been struck in the chest with the butt of a rifle and was curled on the compound dirt watching it happen. When he finally caught his breath, Peter was lying before him curled up and dead on the compound dirt. Alfred was surrounded by German guards with guns pointed at his chest. He stood up and glared at Peter’s forlorn body, then took deliberate steps to collect Peter’s forgotten hat, and retreated back to Arthur’s solemn stance.

For once, Alfred was serious and grave. The charming and infuriating American humor was castaway and he looked at Arthur with desperation and resilience. “Artie,” he began. “Let me know the exact information you need. I’m going out tonight.”

Arthur’s eyes alternated between heavy looks to his cousin and Alfred. Eventually he refound his fire and matched Alfred’s passion. “Right,” he replied. Arthur turned to Berwald and Tino, who were obedient beside him. “Open up Harry,” he ordered. His eyes were dark and green. “We dig—around the clock.”

And that was not just an order. It was a command.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Alfred was able to clip through the wires that night, through the exact “blind-spot” he described. And by morning the German guards were confounded where he could have gotten.

Over his morning cup of tea, Arthur smirked to himself.

 

* * *

 

Inside tunnel Harry, Berwald continued to lead the digging—paving the way for the rest of the prisoners to escape. He was picking away at the end of the tunnel when dirt began to crumble. His arms encircled his head and he held his breath. _It’ll pass, it’ll pass_. And it actually did: was it just a fluke?

Behind him, Tino passed along the bags of dirt down the line. Dozens of men were aligned to carry the bags of dirt backwards out of the tunnel, and they were sprawled along the makeshift railway constructed along the base of it.  

Each time the earth shifted, Berwald’s heart skipped. But he remembered the plan, Tino, and Arthur’s commands, and he kept going. He had to. As long as he could.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Alfred strolled through the compound caught and happy. Feliciano tossed his glove and baseball to him, and he caught them before he was searched.

“Welcome home,” Felciano called with a grin.

Alfred saw Arthur and Matthew’s curious and expectant gaze and he nodded to them: he’d found what they needed and would tell them when he was released. The Germans finished searching, and he was pushed to the cooler.  

Francis, who had been lingering on the sidelines, murmured, “I didn’t think they’d catch him so soon.”

Arthur smiled and turned to the side to hide it. “He wasn’t caught.”

 

* * *

 

 

Berwald was digging one day when his worst fears came true. Tunnel Harry collapsed atop of him and it took desperate minutes for him to crawl slowly out of the dirt. His breath was heavy and his green eyes were impossibly wide and far away. He hated small spaces. He hated them. He _despised_ them.

“Berwald?” Tino called worriedly. “Are you okay?”

But Berwald hated worrying anyone. He was the bigger half of the tunnel kings. The muscle-man. He had to be strong.

His fingers clawed at the dirt until it dug under his nails, and his breath was aching for fresh air. “I’m all right,” he muttered. “Bring some shovels, I’m all right,” he added, a little louder.

The shovels came, and Berwald resumed his work in the same masochistic, laborious need he had to. He was the strength. The foundation. The manual labor. He had to keep going. It was Arthur’s command.

 

* * *

 

 

During the forgery meeting, one of Francis’s lackey’s delivered him a newly made product, and Francis held it close to his eyes under a magnifying glass.

After several tense moments, he brought the magnifying glass down and cursed under his breath. “For god’s sake, Smithy. You left out a bloody eagle.”

“That’s impossible!” Smithy replied indignantly, but Francis ignored him and snatched the paper from his hands—comparing it to the one he had held. Francis’s eyes narrowed and narrowed.

“Yes,” was all he said, and resumed inspection of the first document. Smithy began looking over his own paper, and Francis shut his eyes. He slammed the magnifying glass to the table and crumpled his document. “Four days work UP THE DAMN SPOUT!” he shouted, and it sent the lackey covering his face in shame.

“I’m so sorry, Francis,” Smithy said, covering his face with his hands.

Francis hesitated on the words, but eventually managed a soft, “it’s okay.” He bit his lips. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you go off to bed. I’ll pack up.”

Smithy didn’t take a moment’s waste and eagerly pushed away from the table and chair, saying, “all right. Good night, Francis.”

“Good night,” Francis echoed back to him. The lackey walked out of the recreation room, and the door closed behind him, leaving Francis alone. So again Francis picked up the crumpled document to look at it, and he paused. Why did everything look so…blurry? He swiftly grasped his magifying glass and raised it over. But wait—that wasn’t right. Why should a piece of paper be so unclear when it was so near his face? Francis put away the magnifying glass and stared at the document, trying to gain focus of it. But it was just…blurry. Continually blurry. No matter the angle, no matter the light. It was all just blotches of color.

Francis put the paper down and checked his watch for the time. He looked at it from a normal distance, then closer, then even closer and finally he could see. But it was obvious to him now. The nearsightedness he’d grappled with for so long was getting worse. He was going blind.

Francis stared ahead of him and whispered, “I can’t see a damn thing.”

 

* * *

 

 

Antonio was smoking a cigarette out on the compound, staring wistfully outside the gates. His curls of brown hair were tossed in the breeze and they swished over his forehead. He brushed them aside and kept looking.

He heard footsteps nearing, but Antonio paid them little mind. There were always footsteps nearing around here. Except these stopped just beside him, so Antonio begrudgingly turned his head away from the tall gates and faced—Gilbert Bielschmidt. His arms were crossed and his face looked absolutely resolute.

Antonio managed an easy smile. “Why hello, Prussian,” he said. “How are you doing this fine day?”

Gilbert didn’t smile. That was unusual. Instead he turned to where Antonio was gazing, and said, “I never expected you prisoners to stay idle, you know.”

Antonio blinked slowly. “I assumed that of a German.”

“And I knew you were all planning something. I knew you were tunneling,” he continued. There was a short pause. “I tried to warn Francis, but he didn’t seem to understand.”

Now Antonio’s face contorted. He threw down his cigarette and faced Gilbert head on. “You warned Francis? Why?”

Gilbert appeared to backtrack some, his face reverting to a colder, smoother slate. “I didn’t want to warn him, but… _he of all people,_ I thought should know. So I told him that Germans were never idle. That we were always on guard. But apparently the warning didn’t sink through. You guys were too lazy.”

 _Lazy?!_ When every prisoner in the camp was working to the bone for an escape, and Gilbert was telling him they were lazy? Should Antonio retaliate to that? Was there a reason to? Would it cause more trouble if he did? Better respond to the other statements. “What warning did you give him?”

“I already told you. When I saw Francis last, I warned him that Germans were never lazy, and that you prisoners had grown too comfortable.”

Antonio’s fists clenched at his side and he stepped closer to Gilbert. “That’s not a warning. That’s an eerie statement! How was Francis or anyone supposed to make anything of that?” His breath came panting. “Were you just trying to screw with him? Or with me now? Just what side are you playing for Gilbert? Because I don’t understand!”

Gilbert’s red eyes flashed and he stood firm before Antonio. “I warned him because he has the most to lose, or haven’t you noticed?”

Antonio looked at him blankly, waiting for an explanation.

Gilbert scoffed under his breath and continued as hard as before. “He’s going _blind_ , you imbecile!!”

Blind. Blind? _Blind??_

Antonio heard the word but it processed oh-so-slowly.

“For god’s sake,” Gilbert muttered, and his hand sought his face. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Noticed? Were the close stares a clue? Or maybe the way Francis held the ends of chairs? Or maybe that Francis worked until the ends of the night to make Arthur’s wishes come true. Should Antonio have gained an idea from that? Probably. But obviously, this German—Prussian was all the more observant than he was.

Antonio still hadn’t say anything, and Gilbert was watching him expectantly for an answer. Without one, Gilbert added, “well, considering him, you need to rethink that whole ‘grand escape’ plan of yours. Because obviously he won’t make it.”

Antonio’s eyes hardened. His lips were set in a resolved frown. “He’ll make it. I’ll stake my life on his that he’ll stay alive.”

Gilbert sighed and turned his head to the side. “And you’re sure you’ll make it too then?” He shook his head and began walking away. “You prisoners don’t know anything. Nazi Germany isn’t a fairytale, you know? There’s no simple answer. No clear way out. There’s not just one bad guy out for you—the whole world is a bad guy.” The last words Antonio heard were, “good luck.”

Antonio stood there watching the Prussian retreat. He ended up reaching for his cigarettes, but realized he’d run out. Frustration on frustration. Antonio settled for kicking a clod of dirt and stomping the other way.

 

* * *

 

 

Francis was standing in his room and his breath came heavy. He was formulating a plan—a trick on everyone. Would it work? He had to try.

So he grabs a pin Feliciano had left behind and found his way to the door. He stayed there, staring blankly ahead and breath still fast. He closed his mouth and eyes, steadying himself. Then in controlled strides, he walked one step, two steps, three steps, and stopped. He planted the pin on the floor: something so small, no one else would take notice. But it was there in case. In case Francis had to prove himself. 

As Francis straightened his back he heard the door opening; without thinking, he turned around and called out, “Arthur!”

Antonio was at the door, and with a slow, wary smile, he corrected, “No, it’s just me.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Francis hurried and delicately perched himself atop his bottom bunk. “Of course, my dear. I was being very presumptuous. I hadn’t seen Arthur in ages—I figured he must turn up at some point. Anyway, what do you think of my escape outfit?” Francis made a small pose on the mattress.

Antonio smiled slightly and replied, “it looks fine.” He watched Francis beam and walked a little closer to the bunk, still a few feet away. “How is mine?” Antonio was wearing his military uniform, not his escape outfit. This was a test.

And Francis, so beautiful and assuming, grinned wide and waved his hands. “Oh, Toni it’s so beautiful! Feliks can be a wonderful tailor when he wants to, yes? And the color suits you so well. How marvelous.”

Antonio’s brows lowered and his smile was dry. For god’s sake. He hated when a German - or a Prussian - was right.

 

* * *

 

 

It was in the middle of the night, Berwald crept across the compound, carrying wire-cutters and nothing else. He leaned against the hut when a surveillance light passed by, and moved again when it was dark. He was going to get out. He was going to get out now and breath fresh,  _ free _ air. Now. 

But he hardly made it two cabins until Tino was running to catch up with him. Their faces were hidden in shadows, but Tino’s was very clearly crossed and he made a point of grabbing Berwald’s arm. “What are you thinking Berwald?! You’re going to get shot if they see you. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m going through that fence—now,” Berwald replied, and brusquely pulled his arm out of the grasp and ran to another hut. Tino followed close on his heels, pushing all of his weight to his hands when he tried to pin Berwald to the hut wall. 

“Berwald,” Tino clapped his hands to Berwald’s shoulders and held him close: his eyes were deep blue. “We’re going to get out through the tunnel. We’re almost clear. We can make it together!”

Berwald’s expression was of anguish and he tore Berwald’s hands away from his body. “Please, Tino. Leave me alone. I can’t go in that tunnel anymore…so I’m going out through the wire.” He viciously tossed Tino to the side, pushing him backwards, and ran to the edge of the cabin, waiting to reach the wire. Tino jumped to his feet and once again pushed Berwald to the wall. 

“Berwald,” Tino begged and his touches grew softer, reaching for Berwald’s face.  “Please think this through. We’re going to get out, but not through the wire. We’re getting out through the tunnel. It’s finished.”

Berwald panted slightly and shook his head. “I go out now.” He made a dive for the fence, and Tino grabbed him backwards and lunged him towards the hut again. “Berwald,” he pleaded. “If you go through that wire, you’re going to get killed.”

Berwald appeared to awaken at that threat and finally used his strength to retaliate. He grabbed the cloth of Tino’s jacket and swung him from one wall of the hut to the other, and pressed his body close and kept his gaze near.

“Tino,” he began. “Please don’t do that.” His breath was shaking when he released his rough grip and caressed Tino’s cheek. “You know that since I was a boy, I hated and feared small spaces—”

“But Berwald you’ve dug seventeen tunnels— _ over  _ seventeen now and—”

“I dug because I must get out,” Berwald said. “I hide the fear, and I dig. But tomorrow night in the tunnel, with all those men… I’m afraid maybe this time I will lose my head, and ruin the escape for everybody,” he stopped and let the words sink. As Tino gazed at him distractedly, Berwald took the opportunity for another lunge, saying, “I  _ must _ go now.”

But Tino swiftly came after him and tripped his footsteps, sending Berwald stumbling after. Tino used all of his strength to pull Berwald upright and press him to the cabin exterior wall again. 

Tino held Berwald’s face in his hands and looked at him closely. “Berwald, I’ll see you through the tunnel.” He tore Berwald’s searching gaze from the fence and held his eyes again. “I’ll look after you . I’ll stick with you all the way, I promise.”

Berwald was growing antsier by the minute, but less about his safety and more about Tino’s. German guards were certainly rounding the corner by this time. He grasped Tino’s hands and nodded his head once, “all right.”

They disappeared into the night like thieves, and climbed their ways back to their huts.

 

* * *

 

 

Antonio lied atop his bunk on his side, smoking a cigarette and letting the ashes fall of the railing. Francis was lying still beneath him, but Antonio knew he was awake. Francis snored when asleep. 

There was a knock at the door and both of them turned. Antonio called, “come in.”

Arthur appeared at the open door, looking positively distressed. He crossed his arms at once and bit his lips. “Good evening,” he greeted solemnly.

At the tune of his voice, Arthur leapt from his bed and to his feet: making a grand show of buttoning his jacket. “Well, Arthur dear…how do you think we look?”

There was a long pause and Arthur shifted his arms behind his back and clasped his hands there. He stepped forward and met Francis’s gaze. “Francis, I,” he paused and it seemed as though the next words were hard for him. “I want first of all to say that without you, we would not have been ready.”

Francis’s eyes fluttered and his grin was shy. “Well, that’s all right. I had so much help. So much excellent help.” He tucked one hand in his jacket pocket and turned away, still smiling. But Arthur didn’t reply right away, and Francis grew suspicious, because since when did Arthur not want to have the last word? “What’s the matter, Arthur?”

“You can’t go,” Arthur said. His face was stoic and unreadable.

At those words, Antonio perked up, and he raised himself up to watch the conversation more deliberately. 

“What do you mean?” Francis asked dumbly.

“I can’t allow it.”

“Why?”

_ “Because  _ you can’t see a your bloody hand in front of your face,” Arthur exclaimed, and his eyes were desperate, almost pleading. “You’ll be caught before you got ten yards.”

Francis paled, and he could feel sweat prick is palms. He tried to remain calm. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, and sidestepped Arthur to walk dramatically to the doorway. “I can see perfectly. Perfectly! I can see…I can see that pin down there. Does that satisfy you?”

Arthur calmly leant against the frame of the bed. “What pin? Where?”

Without answering, Francis took calculated steps forward to grab the pin he had planted on the bedroom floor. Once he grasped it, he held it up proudly to Arthur and waited for confirmation.

Arthur took a seat on Francis’s bed and softly sighed. “Francis, do you, um, see the foot of the door?”

Francis’s smile disappeared and his shoulders squared. “Yes, of course.”

Arthur stuck his leg out and said, “put the pin there, will you?’

“All right,” Francis replied. And he began walking. Walking until he reached the surprising barrier of Arthur’s leg and stumbled over it, and toppled to the floor with a groan. Arthur hurried to help him up and whispered a small apology. Antonio watched the entire ordeal and crushed his cigarette in frustration. 

Arthur picked Francis up by the waist and guided him to the bunk-bed, “come on now, sit down.” Francis’s body was entirely taught, but Arthur continued to pat it down and tried to ease him. “It was a good try. I hate these last-minute letdowns, but I’ve only just been told,” he stopped and gave Francis’s elegant, but obvlious figure a once-over. “It’s too risky for you.”

Antonio took it as his time to intervene and blurted, “don’t you think that’s Francis’s decision to make?”

“No, I don’t,” Arthur affirmed.

Antonio laughed and climbed from his bunk to the floor. “Come on, Arthur. We all know the score here. Or at least most of us do,” he said and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. “Your idea of this escape is to start another front to foul up the Germans behind the lines, and that’s fine. Fine!” Antonio paced towards the door of the bedroom and tapped his knuckles against the wood and peered over his shoulder, eyes emerald. “But once we’ve passed over the wire. Once we have them looking all over Germany for us that mission is accomplished. Afterwards, we have ideas of our own.”

Arthur’s smile was wry. “You mean getting home? To see your family and friends?”

“That’s right.”

_ “Good god,  _ man. Do you really believe I haven’t thought about that too?” Arthur’s face turned cold and eerie. 

But Antonio remained pleasant, and replied, “I’m sure you have. I know Francis has. And Arthur, I have too.” Antonio crossed his arms and glared. “We think we can make it all the way.”

“Not Francis. He’d be an appalling hazard to the whole escape. It’s my decision”

Antonio’s grin turned wicked. “You want to talk about hazard? Let’s talk about  _ you _ . You’re the biggest hazard we have. The Gestapo has you marked. And no one has said you can’t go.”

It took a few tense seconds for Arthur to finally manage a soft, “it’s true.” He took step forwards and his voice grew stronger. “But if you’re asking how far a commanding officer is allowed to go, or dare go, or should be permitted to play god…I can’t answer you.” Arthur was quiet until he turned on his heel and faced Antonio straight on. “But  can tell you that a blind man is an unnecessary hazard not only to himself, but to the entire plan, and must therefore be eliminated from the operation.”

Francis stared glumly ahead and didn’t dare contradict. His resolve was crumbling.

Antonio wasn’t convinced, and remained strong. Perhaps stubborn. He took a step forward and put his hands on his hips. “Francis isn’t a blind man as long as he’d with me. And he’s going with me.”

Arthur quieted and alternated heavy stares between Antonio and Francis. Softly he asked, “is this all right with you?”

Francis looked ahead of him, indigo eyes wide and uncertain. “Of course. Yes. Very much so.”

Arthur tilted his head away from Francis and looked to Antonio. “Very well,” he said slowly. “I’ll arrange for your escape numbers to be altered accordingly.” Arthur didn’t look happy at all. He strode forward and brushed against Antonio’s shoulder. “Goodnight gentleman,” he said. And the door shut behind him.

Antonio lingered nearby and turned to Francis.

Francis was chuckling to himself, muttering, “he’s right, you know? I shouldn’t be going. I shouldn’t go at all. My eyes have been getting worse lately. I think they call it progressive myopia.” He brought the pin near his face and continued, “ I can see things up here, close to. I can see to work, but…” Francis pulled away the pin and looked in the direction of the door. “You’re just a blur.”

“I know,” Antonio scrunched his eyes together and made a resolve. He was going to get Francis out of here. He was going to. No matter the cost or compromise. He laughed and leaned against the bedframe, looking down at Francis. “We’ll make it in great shape, don’t ya worry. Now, Francis—do you have any tea?”

Francis’s smile was slow and wary. His eyes slowly sought out Antonio’s voice and brightened. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, then let’s have some,” Antonio declared and Francis followed the command with a laugh. 

Francis slowly found his way to the tea and his fingers fumbled to find their way. Antonio closed his eyes and continued promising: He was going to get Francis out of here alive. He was going to do it. No matter the cost. He was was going to do it. No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disegno e colore will be updated soon!!
> 
> thank you for reading! please comment :))

**Author's Note:**

> When I stress about life I write fanfiction :')


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